The Unseen made Visible
by Carbon65
Summary: Sebastian's body betrayed him and left a thousand invisible scars, while every one of Quinn's mistakes has been on display for everyone to see. Can a summer job together teach them about loving themselves? Set after season 3. Quasi-sequal to Control. Diabetic!Sebastian
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Okay, this has been a long time coming. I promised __**Martina Malfoy Lastrange **__a ficlet in exchange for a favor she did me a while back. The prompt was "Quinn and Sebastian, Hurt/Comfort." I get bonus points for every Harry Potter reference I work in. I promise, the Quinn/Sebastian will come… but my OC's have been dancing through my brain pretty much since they came to life in the last chapter of Control. So, they're back. With a vengeance. And some green gummy frogs. If not abundantly clear, this is set after both _Control_ and _A Mother's Love_. You don't necessarily have to read either of them for this to make sense, but it might make more sense with that context. Basically, my head cannon has Sebastian as depressed and diabetic. This starts of kind of slow, but I promise there will be Quibastian in the future._

_Right now, I'm aiming for about a once a week update schedule on this, until I finish _Squirrel Bate_ and/or defend. … I also might be a review whore, so that might help me update faster._

* * *

The first time he sees her, he isn't sure it really is her. After all, there are a million blonds who pass through his life every day, and he doesn't notice all of them.

He's at Children's, in Columbus. It's a strange setting, and that might be part of it. He, and Leesha and Cory from his support group are sitting at a little café table in the hospital lobby, shooting the breeze. It's surprising how comfortable he feels with them, or maybe it's not, considering how many _more _intimate things they're discussed.

The group normally lasts a good hour and a half, but today, they're out early. Partially because Evie took one look at Jamie's blown out pupils, took away his keys and called his mother. Partially because Maddy broke down and went running to hide in the bathroom, where Evie followed. And, partially because the psychologist who came to give them a talk on "Depression and Diabetes" has no fucking clue what he's talking about.

So, the three of them make the discussion with the shrink as short as possible, and went to find somewhere to scandalize people with their discussions of wanton teenage sex. Or, Sebastian could talk about wanton sex. The only thing that has gotten Cory off lately are a few discretely bookmarked sites on his computer and his right hand. Leesh is a virgin by choice, a few control issues, and the fact that none of the guys she is interested in pay her any attention.

"There aren't exactly a lot of people beating down the door to have sex with a guy with a guy like me," Cory complains, rubbing his left thigh.

"That's bullshit," Leesh counters, reaching into her large and ever present handbag and producing a book. Leesh is the kind of girl who doesn't go anywhere without a book. "Read this, and be like August. There will be a million fan girls beating down your door. Pay special attention to the Venn Diagram humor."

Cory takes the sky blue hardcover slowly. "Isn't there a movie?" He demands, "I mean, everything story worth reading eventually gets turned into a movie. _Eragon_, _Harry Potter_, _The_ _Hunger Games…_"

"_Twilight_?" Sebastian ribs him. "I mean, I know you loved it when Cedric Diggory turned into a vampire."

The brunette between them shoots both boys a dirty look. "It's amazing," she says. "John and Hank Green are like, internet celebrities. There is fan fiction about John Green. So, naturally, I want it back." She pulls out a pen and prints her number on the inside of the front cover, and slides it back across the table.

"But it's so long," Cory complains.

Leesh gives him a withering look. "Aren't you the one who texted me about Dobby in a tea cozy last month?" She demanded. "And then called me sobbing inconsolably three nights later because of Sirus Black?" Cory's café au late skin tinges red. "It's a good book. Read it."

Sebastian watches the exchange with a smirk. He doesn't know how Cory is so oblivious to Leesh's advances. Then again, if it wasn't for their common disease, for Cory's disability, and for a crazy set of circumstances, Cory wouldn't be giving Leesh the time of day.

Honestly, Sebastian wouldn't be either. Which would actually be a shame, because she might be the first female friend he's ever had. Actually, Ohio might be the first place he has anyone he can call a friend.

Leesh fishes in her bag, and pulls out a few crumpled bills. "I'm low," she announces. Sebastian and Cory give her twin looks of skepticism. Granted, she's been talking a mile a minute for the last half hour while the three wait for their rides (Leesh's family has four drivers and two vehicles, Cory hasn't gotten his license back yet, and Sebastian's car is in the shop for some unknown reason), but Leesh has been known to do that for all sorts of reasons at perfectly reasonable blood sugar levels.

"If you're really low, and not just fishing for frogs, I'll buy them," Cory says, somewhat gallantly. Leesh has admitted taking guilty pleasure in several odd things: playing Sid Meir's Civilization, slash fan fiction, spreadsheets, and pineapple flavored gummi frogs with marshmallow bottoms.

Bas wonders if he's just being nice, or stringing the girl along.

The girl's head, except for her dark braid, disappears under the table again as she fishes in her cavernous bag. On his playful (sober) days, Jamie has been known to ask Leesh if she has a dead body in her purse.

Bas watches Cory as the other boy suddenly shifts in his seat. A tall, slender blond limps across the lobby, using a forearm crutch. "Shit," boy breathes, "It's _her_."

She looks vaguely familiar: shoulder length blonde hair, big bright eyes, full pouty red lips. She wears a lacy shirt with a sweetheart neck and a pink cardigan. On anyone else, it might have looked provocative or overly sexualized. On this girl-woman-person-thing, it just looks innocent and sweet. Part of Sebastian wonders if it her when she feel from heaven. Maybe that's where the limp comes from.

"Car accident," Cory explains, as Leesh resurfaces with a small black case. "Just before you joined our little band of misfits."

Ignoring the two boys, and the object of their current obsession, Leesha shoves her middle finger in her mouth, and pushes the meter across the table at Cory. She pops the finger out of her month with a soft op! "Fifty three, bitch," she almost crows. The pronouncement would be more impressive if her voice wasn't shaking.

He gets slowly to his feet, using the arms of the small metal chair to leaver himself out. Then, he limps to the gift shop, the black fiberglass and metal leg drawing stares, even in the hospital environment.

Watching people stare, it makes Sebastian glad that everything he has is … invisible. Even if the disease has left marks, they're things he can cover. A part of him, small and horrible, is glad that it's Cory and the blond girl with the visible disabilities and not him. Another part of him wants to go punch something … or drop a few extra units … or something for even thinking that way.

He turns tries to squelch the thoughts. Instead, he turns to Leesha. Who is smart, and funny and quirky and nerdy, and who he really should set up with one of his Dalton schoolmates. Thad, maybe, or Jeff, if he's gotten over his latest crush.

"Could you be more obvious?" He demands, sliding into the role of snarky gay. He would never admit it, but Kurt Hummel is his role model here. The stories of the counter tenor's wrath and fabulosity while at Dalton have made him almost as much of a legend as a certain former lead singer with dreamy hazel eyes.

She sighs. "It's no use when he's obsessed with someone else."

Both their gazes return to the girl in pink.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Okay, apparently you guys are really excited for this. I am OVERWHELMED by the response. So, between that, (more) thesis frustration, and the idoits at my local pharmacy (Thanks Walmart!) you guys have another chapter in two days. However, I still reserve the right for up to a week between updates. … Yes, I'm horrible like that._

_For readers not familiar with the wonderful world of diabetes, there are various types of insulin one can buy which have different release profiles. Most people use a short acting insulin, like Humalog or Novolog, which starts working about 15 minutes after its injected and lasts up to four hours in the body. This can be delivered by a pump (like Sebastian had in Control), or taken as shots. If its taken as a short, its usually combined with a longer acting insulin. Lantus has become the common standard. This has about a 24 hour half life. Before Lantus became widely available, NPH was used. It has about an 8 – 10 hour life and is less constant. In the US, NPH can be bought without a prescription and costs about 30% of what Lantus does. Obviously, though, switching up one's insulin dose or type is a bad idea. Even if one has been diabetic more than half their life and knows more about insulin than most doctors. And, especially if one lives alone. But… I digress._

_And… because I'm writing a ridiculously long author's note anyway, I though I'd mention that I think its ridiculous how RIB handled Quinn's injury. So, trying to reconcile cannon with reality, as I promise will be explained, I think Quinn was dose with steroids and horse tranquilizers. But, more on that later. Also, Still not a lot of Quibastian action. But, we're getting there, I promise. Also, this is the longest chapter I've posted in a long time that didn't belong to a stand alone fic. I'm still working on _Squirrel Bate, _I'll see if I can get some inspiration for more Niff friendship tomorrow. But, I thought I'd get this up tonight; so I'd at least have something._

* * *

The second time he sees her is at work.

His father has gotten him a job as a courier out of a mix of concern, connections and a need for parental control. It comes with car keys, a mileage monitoring device, and a blood glucose testing requirement. It's also the only way he'll have a car at all for the summer. As much as he enjoys waiting places for his father, he has better things to do. Besides, the job pays. Its more than double minimum wage and doesn't involve children, boiling oil or nudity.

He's been at it for a little over three weeks, since he got back from his "vacation". Normally, he makes his way through Columbus after rush hour traffic has died down, eats a leisurely lunch, and then returns with deliveries in the afternoon. But, a big case has broken in Lima. Something about criminal neglect and child endangerment, he's not entirely sure, he doesn't actually pay much attention to cases beyond whether or not they'll cause the family to move. This is the kind of case that could make or break a career. It's just the sort of thing his father likes.

Unfortunately for his dad, Liz Cohen has the case, and they're forced to cooperate on the prosecution. Watch his father, a man as impassive as Everest, work with the spitfire of a woman is almost comical.

In sixteen years, he doesn't think he's ever seen his father cry. There are more letters in the alphabet than times he can remember that he has been embraced. And, he cannot think of a day when case notes were not neatly printed in his father's perfect angular hand, re-typed by a secretary or page, and then color coded and filed in triplicate.

He has met Liz Cohen twice, and both times, she hugged him effusively, pulling him into her pillowy chest. Her short black curls stick out from her head in spirals like Medusa's snakes. Her emotions are near the surface, she's quick to react with controlled anger, but just as quick to respond with compassion. She's a whirlwind, her Long Island accent barely muted after two decades in Ohio, and her organizational system, if it can be called one, a variation on the pile method. He swears he's seen case notes written on coffee stained napkins on Liz Cohen's desk.

As low man on the office totem pole, due both to his age and his late arrival, he gets elected to make the long drive between Lima and Columbus. He argues, a little, but so too much and relishes the afternoon alone in the car. His phone will be silent, and the time will be his to think. He gets his best thinking done in the car.

Leaving the office with the seal envelope in his bag, he _does _stop to test before starting the car. He still uses a meter with a difficult to retrieve memory, and hides his numbers from his father. A person has to maintain their little acts of rebellion. But, he records the number in a note on his iPhone. He has a running bet with the group. The first person to go two weeks without a blood sugar outside the range of the meter gets to pick a penalty for the rest. He wouldn't mind seeing the other three streak … somewhere.

As he drives, he cogitates on the last group meeting.

"Stupid asshats!" Maddy had complained. "I mean, if I needed the prescriptions last month for my _chronic disease, _and there hasn't been a big announcement about curing said disease, don't you think I'm still going to need my prescription this month?"

Evie Blake, the only medical professional in the room, wisely kept her mouth shut. He could see the twitch as she thought about the rampant possibility for abuse in the system.

"I went to get my Lantus prescription, today," Maddy explained, "And they wouldn't give me my insulin because the doctor was processing the prescription. I had to wait until now, and I'm out. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

Maddy lives paycheck to paycheck. Rent comes due at the beginning of the month, along with phone, internet and electric. Insulin costs almost as much as rent, and she stretches it, running a little high and skipping doses.

If it wasn't for Evie sliding out when the pizza came and finding a sample Lantus pen from _somewhere_, he wonders what the older girl would have done. He knows it's possible to switch insulin types, hell, he's experimented with it himself. But, there's a reason most people use Lantus, and not the cheaper, shorter acting NPH. Mostly because Lantus is a safer insulin. He wonders what people do who can't afford their medication, or when their prescriptions don't come though.

He tries to imagine what it would be like to dose with short acting insulin alone as you wanted for your long acting stuff to get approved. Trying to balance waking up every two hours to take a dose with the exhaustion of super high blood sugar and the fuzziness of ketones. Even contemplating the idea terrifies him. He shudders a bit, and turns up his music. Pentatonix's cover of _Without You_ fills the car, and he wishes, not for the first time, that there was someone who cannot be the same without him.

Ten or fifteen minutes away from the Prosecutor's office, he starts to feel it. His head starts to ache. His vision … changes. It's not so much a blurring effect as a sharpening one. He can feel himself getting more aware of his surroundings, as his brain turns off the extra lines of thought and compounds all his concentration on two things: driving the car and keeping his body under control.

Coming to a stoplight, he pushes down on the break. The alternator trembles under his foot, and he has to push the break petal hard. It seems to take all the energy in his legs to keep the car from jumping into the busy intersection. It's a peculiar feeling, but a familiar one.

Through the fog, he somehow manages to pull into the small building from the early seventies that serves as the prosecutor's office in Lima. The small part of his mind that isn't focused on tasks wonders if there will be avocado shag carpet. He shakes his head, which only intensifies the headache, and focuses on the tasks at hand.

Turn off the car engine.  
Take the keys out of the ignition.  
Check the glove compartment for sugar.

Someone, whether it was the Warblers, his father, or a magical sugar stealing gnome, appeared to have raided his glove compartment. He can't find anything in his car. Not a single stale mint or a glucose tab so past it's prime that yeast have started to ferment it. He needs to get inside. He needs relief.

Pick up the courier envelope. Put it in his messenger bag.  
Pick up his messanger bag.  
Get out of the car.  
Lock the door.  
Walk into the building.

He feels himself slipping. Things are bright now, haloed rings where the light is hitting just outside the focus of his eyes. It's so damn bright outside, and so damn dark inside. He shuts his eyes, and his vision is filled with sun spots. He knows, though, that even if he hadn't just been out in the bright daylight, the spots would be there. And, they'll stay.

He practically shoves the envelope at the receptionist. "Do you have a bathroom?" He words burst out of this mouth before he can control them.

The receptionist points down the hall behind her, and he practically runs past. He spies the red glow of a vending machine through a half open door, and bolts through it. His hands shake as he fishes quarters from his bag, and shoves them into the machine. When the can falls, he opens, and sucks it down, greedily. He turns, and leans against the machine. It's only then that he notices the girl in the room.

Even in this state, he recoganizes her. She is in Nude Erections. God, who thought that was a good name for a high school choir? It sounds like the name of a bad 70's porno. The perfect, smart blond, not to be confused with Satan's girlfriend.

He's also sure she's the girl he saw at the hospital, limping out of the physical therapy office. Except, at regionals, she could walk. Hell, she could dance. And, if the shaking cell phone footage collected by a Dalton Alumni Spy in Chicago was anything to go on, at Nationals as well. Now, she's fighting to keep her balance.

Instinctively, he moves to catch her as she begins to teeter. His reflexes are off, though. She falls to the ground, and he lands beside her, a tangle of trembling limbs and impossible to muss hair.

"I don't need your help, Sebastian," she says from the ground, her voice sweet yet husky.

"Who said I was trying to help," he shoots back, attempting to gain control of his body again.

She laughs, the sound a rustle, as she looks down at the splash of Coke across his khaki pants. The can lays beside the two of them, empty. "Clearly, you were aiming for the cola clothes wash," she retorts. He doesn't know how, but she's getting the upper hand.

He scrambles to his feet, while she stays on the ground. Slowly, she uses her hands to pull her legs straight. She rolls over to her knees, awkwardly, and flexes her body until she's standing. The movement is so different from the graceful dancer he met at Regionals, and during the _Bad _showdown.

"Sebastian? Quinn?" Liz Cohen's voice flattens their names, and startles him. "Are you okay, honey?"

He doesn't know if she's asking him, or the blonde, Quinn.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Cohen," she says. "I think I'm just going to sit down in here for a little while."

"I'm fine," he echoes. Thank god that his brain is numb, and not reeling a mile a minute without filters.

"Take your time, honey," she says, going to the refrigerator to retrieve a glass box of cold lagasna. She squeeze's Quinn's shoulder in a motherly way, as she walks back towards her office. He's suddenly aware of the sound of children's squeals from one direction or another. They become fainter when the door clicks shut.

"What's your problem?" The husky voice demands. Damn, apparently his filters are not in working order. Has he been staring?

He shrugs. "You tell me, Paralympic Barbie. I don't think I'm the one of us with the problem."

With that, he turns on his heel, and hurries out of the break room, leaving Quinn sitting at the table.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I kind of can't believe how long this chapter has gotten. It's longer than my thesis discussion (which admitted, is relatively short… and then, I had someone write a comment about whether or not I had enough data for a thesis, but I passed my defense, so I guess I must have been good enough?). So, thank you to everyone who has reviewed, and drove me to … 2K words. Once again, I beg up to a week for the next chapter, seeing that real life has decided to be difficult, again. … Oh, and if you're curious about Scotty, his history with Jeff is introduced in _Squirrel Bate_, which is a Niff/Thad friendship fic. And yes, I'm pimping myself out._

The third time they meet is at the GAP.

For some reason as yet to be explained to him, every single one of the Warblers last year has a life-long ban from every GAP store in Ohio, including baby GAP, GAP body, and the outlet stores. Apparently, a picture of the choir is posted in the break room of each store to make sure none of the singers terrorize, or patronize, the store or its employees again. He is really starting to detest the store, which has become synonymous in his head with visits to the mall.

It's a warm Saturday in mid June, and he is finally enjoying having car privileges. Trent called him with a two-fold emergency. First, Trent needs new clothes, and second, Scotty is making Trent crazy.

He arrives at Trent's grandfather's house around two. It's a two-bedroom bungalow, built just after the depression. The house was once a bright shade of yellow, but its faded to a dull beige. The garden, too, has seen better days. A few dry marigolds line the beds of wilted lettuce and yellowing tomato plants. A clematis, with its spiraling flowers, curls around the front and side of the house. The plant wraps around one of the columns supporting the porch room, the wood showing through the cracked white paint. The flower's perfume does little to remove the scent of cigarettes from the air, though. Scotty, Trent's twin, sprawls gracelessly across the porch swing in his over-sized military jacket, working his way through a pack of Camels.

Sebastian doesn't want to talk to Scotty. He just wants to get Trent, and go. It makes him uncomfortable, seeing his friend's home. At Dalton, it's easy for him to pretend that everyone is financially secure, but in the summer, it's harder to ignore reality. Plus, his insulin pen is in the car, and even with the windows cracked, the black interior turns into an oven. His father will doubtless invest some horrific consequence for frying his insulin, if it should happen. He has only just convinced his dad that a mini-fridge, run off the cigarette lighter, is unnecessary and ridiculous. He has, however, replenished his supply of Life Savers.

"Hey, Pretty boy," Scotty slurs from the swing, "Gonna play butt pirates with my brother?"

Bas tries to ignore him, as he knocks on the front door. Scotty is clearly in a mood. And, even though it goes against everything inside him, he reminds himself that Scotty isn't a schoolyard bully. He's just a Lima Looser.

"Or maybe," the boy taunts, "You're going to let PissKop Sterling sprinkle you with his magical golden showers while Trent rides you and Thad watches. Is that it?"

For some reason, Scotty invokes Jeff whenever possible, and makes all sorts of wild accusations. In the five times Trent's twin has had a chance to run his mouth off without a guiding influence (Trent's steel toed boot to the shin usually does the trick), there have been implications of bed wetting, homosexuality (not really in insult, but certainly a private matter), necrophilia, lunacy, and bestiality with a squirrel.

He isn't sure why the blond brings out all his protective instincts in the way he does, but insulting Jeff is a line he can't let the boy cross. He yawns. "Sounds like a typical Thursday Warbler's rehearsal." He knows he's playing a dangerous game, but he lets his mouth run anyway. Scotty Nixon can't hurt him. "At least we all have dicks that we can get up, though, to fuck each other during our massive orgies. 'Cause I know the prescription for Viagra in your bathroom isn't for your dad, Scotty."

Trent's twin turns white with rage, and throws down his cigarette. The pulsating hatred he gives off certainly isn't a response to the suggestion of his impotence, as much as at the mention of his father. Because if there is one person Scotty loves more than anyone in the world, it's his father. Incidentally, if there is one person Scotty hates more than anyone, it's the same man. When the tall, acerbic boy from Dalton so casually mentions him, it triggers something in Scotty's drug addled brain.

He throws down his cigarette butt, leaving a black singeing on the cracked paint of the floorboards as he grinds it under his combat boots. "Fuck you, Smythe," he breathes, his voice barely a whisper.

"Thanks, but I'd rather not," the taller boy quips calmly. "I don't think you could." He pauses for a second to consider. Inside the house, Trent is hopping up and down on one foot, in the process of getting on his shoes. "And, I'd just as soon _not_ get an STI before I'm 18, if it's all the same."

He accepts Trent's hug, and they walk toward his car. On the porch, Scotty settles himself back onto the swing. The sun glints off the silver of his square Zippo as he lights himself another cigarette.

"Where are we going?" Sebastian asks his fellow Warbler, praying that it will be anywhere but…

"The GAP," Trent says.

The visit is almost routine. As they enter the enter the white washed perfection of the mall, Trent shoves him a wad of wrinkled, folded bills, a few coupons, and several print outs. He can tell the list is mostly sale items, with clearance ranking the highest and a few full-priced items sitting at the bottom. Trent sits on a black bench, just in view of the navy blue sign, as his friend goes in to shop for him.

Trent's list is _very _specific about the shirt he wants, down to the obnoxious blue and purple of the plaid. He is perusing the clearance rack when he sees her across the store. For the first time, she's in a wheelchair. The sleek black frame seems to hug her body, and it's clearly fitted for her. Something happened, and he's determined to find out what.

He moves toward her, collecting the items on Trent's list. He knows, comparing the list and the wad of cash (mostly ones, with the occasional five thrown in for good measure, and a single rumpled twenty) that he's not going to even make a third of it. He tries to triage, but somehow, like always, his own money will end up covering at least one item.

Quinn is sitting below a set of shelves, looking up at shoes. He approaches gingerly. "Help you with something?" He asks, keeping her voice neutral.

"I's like to try a pair of the ballet flats, in an 8." Her husky voice is authoritative.

He shifts the pile of clothes to his left arm, and fishes on the shelf for a pair of shoes. Except, they're not arranged in anything like a logical way. With men's shoes, there are one, maybe two colors, and just a few styles. Women's shoes are a mess of styles and colors and sizes. He finally shifts through them enough to pull out a pair of dark silvery shoes from the pile.

He presents her with the pair. Quinn just stares at him. "You fail at being gay," she says, accusatorily.

"That's not what Puck said, the other night," He retorts, not entirely sure why he's taking the bate. Except that he's bored, and he does stupid things when he's bored. "If you wanted someone with fashion sense, you should have brought Ladyface and the Cyclops hobbit."

Quinn mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, "Life long ban", and "Didn't want them to see me."

"Sorry, you have to speak up," he challenges. "I don't understand the language of the illiterate unwashed masses so well."

Just then, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

"Really Smythe, Team Starkid?" Quinn quizzes.

He blushes, and checks his phone. Phones are not exactly private things at Dalton. And, Thad likes to import music, or contacts, into other people's phones. Trent is getting bored, and hungry. He shrugs. "Look, I have to go…"

He hurries toward the check out counter, which Quinn wheeling behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices her put the offending pewter shoes on a shelf. "Wait, Smythe, who are you here with?" She asks.

"Warbler Trent," he says quietly. She watches as he pays for the clearance items. "And, I'm not here 'with' him… He just needed a ride."

He hears the quiet squeak of Quinn wheeling away as his first paycheck takes a hit, and he collects the navy and white bag. When he returns to the bench, he finds Quinn and Trent deep in conversation.

"… That sucks," Trent says, rubbing Quinn's arm.

She shrugs. "It's not so bad…"

Trent gives her a knowing look. "Sweetheart, we're going to take care you." He glances up at his fellow Warbler. "We're taking Miss Fabray shopping, today." There is no room for argument when he uses that tone. Which is how he ends up following Trent and Quinn around the Lima Mall.

After an hour or two of hard shopping, he finds himself drooping. There have been far too many clothing stores involving dresses, and far too few chances to be what Thad has taken to calling Sebastian's "Draco Malfoy" impression… acting like a smarmy git. It's almost painful for him to watch the blonde struggle through the simple task of shopping.

"I swear to god, if I have to go into one more store, I will scoop your eyes out with a rusty spork," He threatens Trent.

The fabulous Warbler looks over at him. "Do you need something to eat?" He asks gently, in an almost patronizing tone.

If it was anyone else but Trent, he might loose his temper. But, it's Trent, who has put up with more of his abuse, and more of Scotty's abuse, without fighting back, than anyone else around. "I can be generally tired of shopping without being hungry," he tries to send the message.

Trent shrugs. "Shall we go to the Lima Bean anyway?"

Sebastian perks up, but Quinn shakes her head. "No." Her voice is firm.

"Breadsticks?" Trent proposes, next. Again, Quinn protests.

They end up at a small Mediterranean place in a strip mall a few blocks away. It's a strange place for Ohio. The food has a little too much flavor, and not quite enough meat for most people. And, the lack of beer keeps the normal Lima crowd away. He goes to the bathroom as Quinn orders a plate of Baba Ghanoosh and Hummus.

As he comes back, he hears Quinn explaining to Trent. "Yeah, but that was Nationals and Graduation. You only win the National Show Choir Championship once. You only graduate high school once."

"Unless you're Noah Puckerman," Trent stage whispers. "Or my brother."

Quinn gives him a dark look. "Puck graduated." She sounds defensive. "Anyway, I did it. After the accident. I said I was going to dance at Nationals, and I did. And, I said I would walk at graduation, and I did." She mutters something about Sue Sylvester and horse steroids and botox and electroshock therapy. "It worked, for about two weeks…"

"And then it stopped?" Trent asks.

"Yes. No. Sort of…" She says, her voice trailing off. "It hurt? Not like giving birth hurt…"

Sebastian's jaw drops. "Giving birth?" Trent kicks him under the table. Hard. "Dude!" Although, apparently Quinn's pregnancy isn't news for Trent. He vows to catch up on McKinley gossip with the sassy Warbler as soon as Quinn is safely away.

Somehow, they get through the meal without any more awkwardness or mentions of teenage sex. Although Trent makes an off-handed comment about how Hummus is a complex carbohydrate.

During the long drive back to his father's estate in Columbus, after Quinn and Trent have been dropped off at their respective homes, he wonders if he might have the beginnings of another friendship with a girl.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: A THOUSAND apologizes it has taken me this long to get this posted. The past two weeks have been absolutely crazy for me IRL. I finished my masters, packed up apartment, drove 2000 miles cross country with my parents and surly 17 year old brother, got a new apartment, and came home. Basically, we'd get up, drive, and then I'd fall into bed. I'm also sorry if I haven't been answering PMs… same reason. This chapter is at 4.5K. This is the longest cohesive thing I've written since, I don't even know when. _

_At this point, I'm so ready to post and make people satisfied, that I'm not sure if I should add more diabetes notes. I guess I'll mention that most commercial blood sugar meters can only read between 20 mg/dl and 599 mg/dl. Outside this range, they display some variant on the messages "LO" and "HI". Also, it is not uncommon for someone starting or re-starting a pump to run a trial with saline (basically salt water) to decide if they can do it/like it/what ever._

_Thanks to everyone who has read, or reviewed, or followed. I appreciate it! … I have one more favor to ask of you. A friend of mine is going through a rough time. Her sister and I are trying to fill her Tumblr ask box with 100 messages reminding her that she is special and she is loved. If you have a Tumblr and could drop something (long/short, signed/anon) in the box of breathinginlove, I would totally appreciate it. Thanks! C65._

After three times, he stops counting. The truth is that the Venn Diagram which makes up his and Quinn's networks has enough overlaps between their work acquaintances, time at Children's and the Nude Erections-Warblers connection that they come in contact maybe twice or three times a week. Normally its just a few sentences: a greeting, and an inquiry about the state of Quinn's health, work, or one of their mutual friends. Then, either he or Quinn have to off to take care of something. It is a comfortable acquaintance, but not a friendship. However, in late June, something happens that changes the dynamic of their relationship.

It's an impossibly hot Tuesday afternoon during the last week in June. The children of Western Ohio are staging a protest of the heat: Occupy Swimming Pool. At least 99% of the school age children are joining in. The mercury is just brushing 100ºF and it's so humid that going outside is reminicant of the rainforest. His sadistic side wants to see Blaine Anderson's hair.

He's almost pleased when Leesha calls him to collect her reward. She has avoided blowing out her meter for the past two weeks, while he's been HI three times. Her "punishment" for the support group is … a pool party? She has found a private place, and claims the weather is too hot for anything else. He still thinks that taking off all everyone's clothes and running really quickly would cool people, but apparently Evie has vetoed anything illegal. So, a pool party. The scope of his punishment involves bring at least three guests and food. Before Leesh hangs up, she adds, "I don't care they're gay, straight, orange, purple, dinosaur. You're not coming if you don't bring me at least two other hot men to objectify, Smythe."

He finds himself scrambling more than he'd like to admit to find people. He has a few people who he calls friends at Dalton: the Warblers, Joshy his chemistry partner, and Cerve his Latin buddy. But, it's one thing to conjugate irregular verbs with or spill acid on someone, and another to invite them to be eye candy for a (slightly sex) crazy graduate of an all girl's school.

He calls Trent first, and begs the tenor to join him. Trent isn't too bad, and he's an absolute sweetheart. Even if he's as Takai as Sulu, Leesh will love him, immediately. Everyone loves Trent. Unfortunately, though, Trent isn't available. He, Scotty, and their grandfather, are going to see Mr. Nixon for the weekend.

When he hears the news, he isn't sure what to say. Should he offer to be at the other end of the phone for Trent? Should he tell him how much he thinks the situation sucks? Should he sing a song? Finally, he all he says is, "Call me when you get back, and we'll go for coffee." Trent's sign of relief is audible.

He tries Nick, next. Nick isn't as easy to be friends with as Trent, and he has his own life. But, after living together, they have a sort of friendship. Nick is quiet. Shy, maybe. Not in the same way Bas is shy, where bravado is a cover for fear, but shy nonetheless. Still, Nick was the first person to know his secret. They've spent too many hours together watching movies, bitching about teachers, playing pranks, and finally… talking. Nick, like any Dalton boy, can be charming when he wants to be, even though he's shy. And, he's quite good looking. So, it isn't a stretch to imagine him fulfilling Leesha's criteria. Part of him is surprised when Nick agrees, easily. But, he's relieved as well.

One down two to go.

Over the next half an hour, he steadily works through his list of Warblers. Jeff is in Australia, visiting his father. He can't even reach David, who has apparently retreated to his family's cottage on the shores of Lake Michigan or gone camping. Either way, there he doesn't seem to have cell service. Meatbox is working for two weeks at a church camp, and doesn't pick up, either. He thinks Thad is in New York or California with his mom, but it turns out that he's working for Liz Cohen as well. Thad jumps at the chance for a little social interaction in the evening, after work. It's lonely being the son of a high powered man.

Thad and Nick leave him with one more person. He could call a girl, he supposes, if he knew any beyond Leesh or … Quinn. He dismisses the idea of the blond almost immediately, and returns to scrolling through his cell phone contacts.

Finally, after another half an hour, he calls a number he hasn't been sure he could. Honestly, though, its down to FRESHMAN ANDREW (DNC) or FRODO BAGGINS, and there isn't really even a choice.

Blaine picks up on the first ring.

"Hi?" He says, tentatively.

"Hello, who is this?" Blaine asks, already knowing the answer.

"Sebastian." His voice is quiet. "I was wondering if…" He trails off, then starts again. God, he's nervous. If he'd know it was going to be this bad, he would have taken a shot of Courvoisier or Bombay Sapphire before he made this call. "I need a favor," he finally says.

"Why should I do you a favor?" Blaine asks. Their relationship is slowly recovering from that incident with the rock salt laden slushie. The one that Freshman Andrew was intended to drink, which was confused with the one that was supposed to be thrown in Kurt's face.

He isn't sure how to answer, so he plows ahead. "A friend of mine is having a party, and I need to bring a few good men. Thad and Nick already agreed. … It will just be a handful of people, a pool, and some food." He pauses, trying to decide if he makes the offer that kills him to think about. "You can even bring Kurt, if you want."

He waits. "Kurt is out of town," Blaine says, finally, a bit depressed. "He and his dad are looking at options for his gap year."

He remembers that Kurt was not accepted into his dream school, NYADA, and like an idiot, Hummel didn't even apply anywhere else. What kind of school lets their students put everything on a school that isn't so much a reach as a leap of faith without even a safety school?

"It would still be nice if you could come," he says, finally. "And, I'll be a gentleman. No funny business."

Blaine snorts. "You'll be a rake," his voice is almost playful. Almost flirty. "Because you don't know how to be anything else. Text me the address."

They disconnect, and he slumps into a chair, relieved.

He doesn't know how it happens, but on Thursday morning, his father informs him he has an appointment to start a saline pump trial. Apparently he's trustworthy enough to have a pump again. His old one is four years old, the typically life time of an insulin pump, and it makes sense to get one now. Assuming Obamacare is up-held, he'll be able to get two more before he gets kicked off his parent's insurance.

He plans to pick up Nick at half past five and make it to Leesha's by a quarter 'til. It's less than a twenty minute drive according to his phone. That leaves plenty of time for traffic, or Nick's parents, or any one other thing that might go wrong.

Unfortunately, he forgets to bank on Kaylee.

The five year old is staying with her grandparents and her uncle for the week. Her mom is off… somewhere. He has never liked her mother, Amberlyn. When he and Nick started talking, there were things his roommate said that made him wonder about the girl's motives. Things that made him wonder about Nick's brother, Kevin.

Kaylee opens the door when he knocks. Her short dark curls fall loosely around her shoulders. She wears a pink shirt with a T-Rex and a triceratops. Her army-green shorts are embroidered with little fireflies. She hugs a gray bear with a white neck.

"Hi, Sebby!" His heart melts as the little girl greets him in her high-pitched voice.

"Do you want to ride?" He offers, trying to be gallant. All the Warblers are gentle around Kaylee.

She nods, and he lift her up on top of his shoulders, where she wraps her arms around his head and giggles. Book the Bear flaps against the side of his neck as he ducks through the door into Nick's house.

"Hello?" He calls, feeling awkward in his roommate's parent's house.

Kaylee giggles. "Gramma and Grampa are on da padio," she tells him in her high little voice. "And Uncle Nicky is upstairs, getting ready."

"Where is the patio?" He asks his passenger. She directs him through the modest house to a well tended garden. Nick's parents, who don't look nearly old enough to be grandparents by his estimation, sit together in white Adirondack chairs. Nick's father is drinking a beer in a green glass bottle, and his mother has a tall glass of water.

"Hello Sebastian," Nick's father greets the tall boy. "I see Kaylee has drafted you already."

He shrugs his shoulders, and his little passenger bounces, giggling. He doesn't know a lot about children, but Kaylee seems so small and fragile for a five year old. She doesn't seem to know how precious she is, though. Kaylee is a notorious scamp, always getting into trouble.

"She's good at that, Sir." A smile fills his voice.

Mr. Duvall's smile matches his own. "Yes, she is," he agrees.

She tugs his ear to be let down, and he carefully lifts her from his shoulders and lowers her to the group. Her foot catches on the large pod held to his stomach with a big elastic patch. He's testing it to see if it's the right insulin pump. It hurts when 25 lbs of five year old try with all their might to detach the thing from his stomach, and he wants to cry out or swear. Instead, he unhooks the little girl's foot, and gently lowers the child to the group.

"What are you doing this summer, Sebastian?" Nick's mom asks. She motions for him to pull up a chair and join them.

"I went to see my mom for the first few weeks after school let out," he explains. "I can't believe how early Dalton is done! And then, I've been working for my dad."

"Where does your father work?" Mr. Duvall asks.

He tries to decide the most diplomatic way to answer. "At the State's Attorney office," he explains. At the moment, being charming means not flaunting his family's obvious wealth and privilege. Especially not to people he knows struggle to help cover the bills accrued by hospital stays and chemotherapy for their granddaughter.

"Is this party with work friends, then?" Mrs. Duvall queries. The interrogation suddenly makes more sense.

He's not sure how to answer. He doesn't know if Nick has described his … issues. He wants to imagine that his roommate, and good friend, can keep his secrets. His mind scrambling, he comes out with the first sentence that doesn't betray him. "Aleesha goes to Darby," he supplies the name of Dalton's sister school. "She's the one having the party. Well, she and her parents."

Somehow, the mention of an all girl's private high school and parents does the trick. And, Nick comes down in a hat and board shorts. He grins at his former roommate, engulfing him in a back-slapping bro-hug and leans in to kiss his mother on the cheek.

"Home by midnight," He is reminded, "And kiss us when you come in." Nick half rolls his eyes, but nods.

Then, he calls his niece over and says goodbye to her. It's sweet and yet genunine: the little girl letting her uncle go, knowing everything will be alright when he comes home, and the teenage boy worrying over a child who never should have been his responsibility.

They're quiet for the first five or ten minutes of the drive, each lost in his thoughts. He's still trying to figure out a way to check the pad for delivery. Although, it feels like someone is infusing fire into his hip, so he's pretty sure the saline is flowing. Nick is worrying about whatever Nick worries about: his parents, drugs, alcohol, his brother, Kaylee, Kaylee's cancer…

"How are you?" Nick asks, finally, quietly. He wonders if Nick has been worrying about him. He hopes not.

He shrugs. "Same old same old. How are you?"

Nick echoes the gesture. "Okay. My job kind of sucks."

They continue talking without saying anything the entirety of the drive over to Leesha's house. It's easier to talk about the fact that Freshman Andrew was advised to seek educational excellence elsewhere or how much they both miss Covert Affairs (Nick has a thing for Annie, he prefers Auggie) than to deal with the real problems. They're scratching the surface, avoiding going deeper and talking about things like disease, death, drugs, and anger.

He hefts his pool bag out of he car. He's got a towel, a comic book, a change of clothes, a water gun, and his supplies.

He knocks on the door of Leesh's house. Nick hangs back, a little shy. A girl who looks like a smaller, fairer version of Leesha opens the door. She wears a purple and green paisley bathing suit with soft cotton shorts. He estimates her age to be between 14 and 16. "Are you Sebastian?" She asks, with a smile.

"Yes," He says, offering his hand. "And this is Nick."

"Annabelle," she says, ignoring the offered hand, and turning to lead them into the house. The word GUARD makes an arch across the ass of her shorts. He wonders how Annabelle doesn't feel Nick's pointed, almost uncontrollable stare at her round derriere. The girl is cute.

The three teens emerge onto a small, sunny concrete deck. A few girls from Leesha's school lounge on deck chairs by the pool. One adventurous girl has joined Jaime and Cory in the pool, where they are playing two-on-one basketball, where Jaime's jump shot is dominating Cory and the girl a black bikini. A pair of crutches are leaned against a deck chair within easy reach. Leesha is carrying food back and forth from the air-conditioned house to an already laden picnic tables. Her father is personing the grill, and her mother is filling a pitcher of cold water inside.

There is one person, though, who he can't quite place. He sees the leggy blond in a dark blue and white polka dot bathing suit wearing a wide brimmed straw hat. He can't quite place her, until Cory pulls himself out of the pool, and crutches over.

"Bastian, have you met my friend, Quinn?" He asks, beaming. Quinn clearly looks uncomfortable. Leesha looks uncomfortable. He's sure his face is a mask of discomfort. Nick looks more awkward than normal. Only Cory is beaming.

Quinn smiles politely. "Hi, Sebastian," she greets him with a smile.

"Hi, Quinn," he says, "Been to the GAP, recently." She gives him a bitch look. He gives her a bitch look back.

Annabelle leads the two Dalton boys around, introducing them to the last few members of the party. Then, Nick pulls off his shirt jumps into the pool, to join the basketball game with Cory and the Dorby girl. He knows he made a good choice in bringing Nick when the shirt comes off. How did he not notice that his roommate had pecs? …There is much shrieking and splashing as the boys and girl try to shoot the ball through the hoop.

He sets his bag down in the shade where it must be 90. He pauses, and thinks better of it. His father will murder him if he kills his insulin. This is established fact in the Smythe household, along with the permanent ban on dressing Thor, the Rottweiler mix (no matter how much like the headmaster he looked in that Dalton tie), and that eggs are not for breakfast.

He catches Leesh's arm as she heads into the house, again. A wave of blessedly cool air hits him. "Can I leave this in here?" He doesn't need to be nervous. This is Leesha, the girl who spent at least ten minutes fangirling over Alan Rickman, before pronouncing, "… And he's amazing, because it means that Snape is the voice of God, and doesn't have any genitalia… although I do realize how many fan fics that ruins."

She nods, and turns away to hitch-up the top of her dark green one piece. A line of tubing curls over the top of a sarong, connecting her to the black and silver pump on her hip. "Do you want the fridge?" She asks.

He shoots her a look that says, "Get real." She smacks him gently, and they emerge into the sunlight.

With practiced finesse, Leesha unhooks the pump from, he presumes, her hip, and undoes the sarong. With deft precision, she wraps the tubing around her pump, and the device in her wrap. Then, she grabs a super soaker, and beginning bombarding the group in the pool, before jumping in. He hesitates for a minute, then goes to fill his water gun. He slips off his shirt, and before long, he's joined in the battle.

Leesha's father closes the grill with a snap, and her mother calls the assembled troops out of the pool. "Aleesha, honey, it's six –fifteen," her mother announces, voice laden with significance. The dark haired girl, wrapping herself in her black sarong, shoots her mother a dark look. It's something only a blind man would miss, so naturally, only three people see it.

Annabelle, and the three girls who are clearly her friends, hurry over to the table of food. Nick is quick to join them, flirting with the pretty girls. Quinn is slower. Leesha and the other members of the support group hang back. For Leesh, it's clearly a small act of rebellion. She confessed once that she never eats at 6:15, if she can help it. She will skip meals if she has to not to eat at that dreaded hour. It's a small act, perhaps insignificantly so, but to a person whose life was dominated by a schedule imposed by someone else, it's a personal triumph.

Jaime pulls himself out of the pool, skin and bones and the barest bit of muscle. His ribs stand out. There should be at least another 30 lbs on that lanky frame. Corey tries to follow, but he's slower. It takes him a minute to get out of the pool, and then self-consciously wrap a towel around his waist. Glancing over, its had to say which leg he's trying to hide with his towel… his left one or the third one.

Seb pulls himself out of the pool as well, coming up like a beached whale in front of the blonde in blue and white. She's struggling to her feet, and even though he's wet and she's dry, some long forgotten gentlemanly training kicks in, and he offers an arm. He can be chivalrous, if he wants.

Once she's on her feet, she lets him go, but not before giving his stomach a good once over. He glances down. He knows his stomach is a mine field of scars. But, they're small, compared to what could be there. He's got a few bruises, too, but they're nothing compared to what could be. The biggest and ugliest of them has faded to a faint port wine color and could be covered by a small band-aid. There are a few tiny pricks from injections, but nothing obvious. Then, he realizes that his swim trunks are sliding down enough that the white pod on his hip is showing. He pulls them up, and moves away from Quinn quickly.

Just then, the doorbell rings. Leesh holds her pump against her sarong, and hurries toward the door. He trails behind, glad to escape.

Thad and Blaine introduce themselves, politely. Thad presents Leesh with a bouquet of multicolored daises, while Blaine extends a pair of six packs filled with root beer. Regular, not diet, root beer. A look passes between the three Dalton boys. They've spent enough time with Jeff Sterling that the drink will never have a tame meaning again. Unfortunately, all Leesha sees is the sugar. Which is fine by her, she doesn't touch artificial sweeteners, but will make her parents wild.

Blaine's natural dapperness overcomes the slight faux pas as the four walk back out the pool. His black trunks, covered in rainbow bow ties, draw a few complements as he is introduced around. Annabelle calls them fabulous.

Only Quinn looks unhappy to see the two boys. Even though she's walking well (slowly, but well), she stumbles a little when she sees them enter. He's pretty sure it's Blaine, not Thad, who frightens the blonde. Especially since Thad makes it over to her in two impossibly agile bounds. The boy who steps on Trent and Cullum's feet in Warbler rehearsals (the boys in question usually being halfway across the room) takes the plate gently out of Quinn's hands and offers and elbow.

Blaine's ears turn red, and he hurries over to greet his friend and fellow member of Nude Erections. As he embraces her, he murmurs something that sounds like, "Fell off the face of the earth" in her either. Well, that or "Smell of the space birth".

He makes his way over to the table of food. Leesha is behind him. She glares darkly at the measuring cup in the potato salad. "I think my mom threw out all our other serving utensils in the last move," she says darkly. "I swear to god, when I get my own apartment, I'm not letting a measuring cup or scale in the door."

He chuckles to himself as he loads a plate with potato salad, fresh fruit, and a large bratwurst. He's not sure why, but he settles across from Quinn. She's daintily eating a piece of lettuce. Blaine joins them, shortly.

Annabelle and Jaime are engaged in an argument about some obscure details of academic team. Apparently they compete against each other, and neither is pleased about the topic for the next year. Thad and Leesha are talking seriously about intercollegiate sports. Quidditch, he realizes, as he passes by to get more potatoes. There's something amazing about potato salad without the sliminess of mayo.

"We've missed you," Blaine says to Quinn. He fiddles with a ring made from gum wrappers on his left hand.

"I've been busy," the blonde responds, evasively. "Working, getting ready for Yale…"

Sebastian tries to keep his mouth from hitting the plate. "You got into Yale?" He demands, trying to keep the words, _Stench of public school _off his lips.

"Early decision," Blaine brags, squeezing the alto's shoulder. She beams.

"Wow…" He says, feeling almost to the point of speechless. "Congratulations." He hopes his father will let him go away to school.

They chat for a while as the group scarfs down burgers and salad. Quinn delicately sips a root beer. They talk about neutral topics. Work comes up once or twice. Blaine is working at a local music store and taking cello lessons. Apparently, he's about eight years older than all his classmates. They talk about music. Blaine is excited for the Freelance Whale's sophomore album. He's sort of obsessed with the group's lead singer.

At some point during the meal, he wanders into the house to dose. It's easier to just take his damn insulin than argue with his father. And, much as he is loathed to admit it, even to himself, he feels better when his blood sugar is in range.

As he walks towards the bathroom, Thad abandons his conversation about the pros and cons of Jim Dale's audiobook versions of Harry Potter, and Nick beckons Jaime and Cory to help. Before the former lead Warbler soloist knows it, Blaine is back in the pool, shaking his damp curls from his eyes.

He pulls the small navy blue pen and a pill bottle of tips from his bag, and goes to the bathroom. By now, dosing is almost mechanical. He knows where he has enough fat that he can slide the needle into without pinching skin. Of course, there's always the danger of hitting a vein.

He emerges from the house, blissfully unaware of the smattering of blood, like dark freckles, across his pale stomach. He settles next to Quinn, content to trade barbs and watch the others swim. Her horrified expression and the sudden gray tint to her pallor make him aware that something is not right.

"Sebastian, you're bleeding," she says, faintly.

He glances down. "Oh, fuck." He pauses for a minute. "You won't believe that I'm secretly a vampire, will you?"

"I've seen you in the sun," she points out. Her voice gains strength "And, much to Kurt's dismay, you neither burst into flames nor sparkle."

"REAL VAMPIRES DON'T SPARKLE!" Somehow, Cory, Thad and Leesha have heard just enough of the conversation to have the same knee-jerk reaction to the off-handed comment.

He brushes his hand against the injection site turned geyser, then presses his finger against it, and glances down. Sure enough, it's red. He takes a tentative sniff, but the blood is free of insulin's distinct stink. Then, he presses his hand against it, and waits.

Quinn looks over quickly, and then looks away. He realizes that it's time to leave her alone. He goes back in the house, and cleans himself, slowly. A dripping Leesha offers him slightly soggy paper towels. "They're better than toilet paper," she offers.

He smiles, and deadpans, "A Martha Stewart like you, I'm surprised you don't have special towels."

She grins back. "What, to go with my make up towel?" He nods.

He avoids Quinn, and Blaine for the rest of the party. Instead, he roughhouses with Cory, and Nick and Jaime. He helps throw Annabelle into the pool, much to Leesha's delight. He soaks the other girls with his super soaker, until they retaliate with the garden hose and long, thin plastic tubes which propel the water at least 10 feet across the concrete deck. He is satisfied to see Thad and Leesha talking … again. That tiny piece of him which could be considered good, which, like the Grinch's heart is probably ten times too small, flares with joy.

The sun has long since sunk below the horizon when he drops Nick off, and starts the drive home. He tries to focus on the road, and the darkness. He tries to think about anything in the world: work, music, college, or the building storm on the horizon. Instead, Quinn's pale horrified face haunts him across the miles.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Again, sorry this has taken me so long. I thought being on vacation as going to make writing easier. Apparently not. I also thought this was going to be a single vignette. My muse had other ideas, and I wanted to get this out tonight. It's shorter than the last chapter by a lot. But, it will be more reminicant of Control, since Seb is once again finding himself in trouble. For my friends in countries with LOGICAL temperature systems, 90F = 32C (305 K) and 120F = 49C (322 K). Yes, I am a chemist and unit crazy, but I also wrote this, so review it, maybe?_

He woke up in a house that was both strangely quiet and unbearably hot. It's the fourth day since power has been out, and

before the sun has moved high into the sky, the still air is stifling. The air may be laden with moisture, retaining heat in the air and making it feel heavy, but his throat is as parched and dry as the Sahara. His mouth tastes like something has died in there.

He drops his boxers, and pads to the bathroom naked. The soft plush carpet provides relief from his feet sweat. (He can't believe that his feet sweat. His body does unbelievably disgusting things.) The bathroom floor is a few degrees cooler than the plush carpet.

He brushes his teeth with one hand as he pees. It's minty fresh and cool. The water he gulps after he spits is icy against his tongue and cheeks. It cools him, but it doesn't do much to sate his thirst. He thinks he could drink a river, and still feel parched.

He takes a long, cold shower to wash away the sweat from the night before, and then returns to his room to dress. He picks light weight clothing and boat shoes. He glances at the wind-up alarm clock his father pulled out from somewhere, squinting to read the analogue device, and realizes how late he is.

He throws the dark blue pen cap on his bed, and fishes a pen nib from the pill bottle beside his bed. He screws on the needle, and squirts out a dose to prime it, so there's fresh insulin in his pen. He injects without looking or thinking, just counting clicks as he dials up and dials down, the needle already in his side and possibly leaking. The insulin pen and pill bottle land in his workbag, which already holds his lantus. He's been carrying his insulin with him everywhere, hoping that if he keeps it in the air-conditioned car for more time, the heat sensitive protein will last longer.

He drives slowly to his father's office. The traffic lights are still out, turning every intersection into a four way stop. Luckily, fewer people are on the roads, if they can help it. \

The parking lot at his dad's office is crowded. The government building his father works in has been turned into a temporary heat shelter for the neighborhood. Kids who a few days earlier had joyfully occupied the swimming pool now huddle in the cool to escape the oppressive heat. He gratefully accepts the paper cup of water someone thrusts into his hand. There hasn't been enough time for the medicine in his body to do it's work, and he drinks thirstily.

Before 11 am, he's back on the road. His father has ordered him to go to Lima, where the power has been on for a few days. He has a small leather overnight bag in the trunk, and a pile of case files secured in the seat beside him. He pulls into a gas station, running of a smelly diesel generator. He runs into pee, taking the pile of plastic bottles to the recycling bin. He leaves his bag in the car, and taps the lock button on the car door.

Inside the gas station, he does his best impression of Sea Biscuit. He uses the few crumpled ones in his pocket to buy a bottle of soda. He needs the caffeine. He wishes he had more money in his pocket. He knows he could down the bottle in a single gulp. He wishes he had the money to get another.

As he steps out of the gas station, the heat hits him like a tank. He just wants to get to … somewhere. He doesn't know if it's the heat, or the fact that his blood sugar is still high, but he is exhausted. Maybe the caffeine will help. He tries to ignore the way the sugary sweetness and carbonation makes a foam in his mouth, leaving him parched.

He tries the black handle of the door, gingerly at first. The handle lifts, but the door doesn't budge. He tries again, praying that the heat has simply caused the rubber of the door jam to get sticky, but no amount of force can open the door.

He looks longingly at the keys, sitting in the driver's seat, and his phone in his cup holder. Never mind the bottles of fragile, heat sensitive insulin sitting in the interior of his car. They will go bad quickly if they get about 90ºF. The interior of the car could easily reach 120.

His mind is racing. If they will let him use a phone, he'll be lucky to get out a call. AAA is a logical choice, but the card with the number is inside is wallet. His wallet is locked in the car. He could call his father at work, but he's not sure he can come up with the number for the office. John's cell phone is out of commission, too. Not that he knows that number well, either.

Panic is rising in his chest. His heart races, and tunnel vision threatens to take over. He cannot do this. He cannot do this. He cannot do this. He wants to curl and just let himself bake in the heat.

Somehow, a series of black, faded numbers on the inside of his arm catch his eye. He doesn't know whose they are. He doesn't know why the numbers are written on his arm in sharpie, rather than safely in his phone. He doesn't care, as he fights to push back the fog.

His two quarters clink into the phone, and he shifts it to his ear. He presses in the number, thanking any passing diety that it's a local number.

The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Then, there's a click, the pick up of the reviever and his money being deposited into the phone.

"Hello? Hello?" A woman's voice has picked up.

"Hello. This is Sebastian, Sebastian Smythe." Somehow, he follows his father's instructions to introduce himself without thinking. His voice betrays him, though, shaking.

"Sebastian?" The person on the other end asks, "What do you want?" He recognizes a certain quality to the voice. It's a unique combination of high and sweet, and yet egged with a whisper of huskiness. If he were into women, it would be a voice that would drive him wild.

The next words cost him everything he has. "Can you come help me, Quinn?"

There is a thump on the other line, and a pause. "Where are you?" she asks.

He gives her the address, and the pay phone number as he hears to warning clicks. He gets out the last digit, before the money runs out.

There's static, and then a prerecorded voice tells him that he needs to hang up and try his call again.

He returns the phone to its cradle, and sinks to his knees on the hot concrete. He leans against the white-painted cinderblock walls of the gas station, and lets his vision on cloudy again. He doesn't know how long he leans there, waiting before he slowly wipes the salty tracks from his face, takes another foamy, dehydrating sip, and goes inside to the cold. He needs to relieve himself again.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: I realized, almost immediately after I published the last chapter, that the arc wasn't done. I've been trying to write each encounter as a full story arc, rather than giving you a short series of chapters that build one. This is my longest chapter to date… please excuse the length of time its taken me to update. I know I need to tend to SB, too. That's in the works as well._

_To my Anonymous Friend, I am not from Ohio. I've spent maybe 2 weeks there in my life. But, I lived in both Michigan and Indiana for several years. And, I have a few good friends in Ohio who unwittingly pass me information._

When she hung up her phone call with Sebastian, she knows three, indisputable truths:(1) Sebastian Smythe is in trouble, (2) He called her for help and (3) She cannot rescue him alone. She wishes she was still the free girl who could climb in her little red Bug and have her freedom. Once again, she feels useless. She's walking mostly unaided today (the braces that foot drag) but Sebastian's voice makes her legs go numb again, and her knees collapse.

Mr. Chang is there to catch her before she falls. (Liz is informal; her husband is not. They're a strange couple, that way.) He is passing through with a glass of iced tea, going ... somewhere.

She's been staying with Tina's parents for more than a week. And, she's almost comfortable with them. Her mother had to go out of town, and since the accident, Judy Fabray doesn't trust her youngest daughter alone. She supposes her sister, Avery, could have come to stay with her, but she and Avery aren't on great terms. So, when Liz Cohen offered (even though Tina is in New York, visiting her uncle), Judy agreed gratefully. She has to admit, Tina's parents aren't bad. Strict, but not bad.

"What's wrong, Quinn?" He asks, gently. "Is the heat too much?"

Tina's father is the chief of the physical therapy department at Lima General. He knows as much about her body, and her limitations as she does, possibly more. Even though she doesn't want to think about it, she remembers once again, that the nerves in her body aren't fully recovered. And, although she's fully continent (the accidents were the fault of the high dose of morphine, not her accident), she wasn't completely honest when she said she had full sensation. She can feel pressure. She can feel pain. But, she cannot feel texture, anymore. She cannot identify hot and cold. And, because of that, she cannot sweat below her injury. Heat is more dangerous for her than for other people.

"No," she says. She tries to keep her voice even. "A …" her voice trials off as she searches for the right word for Sebastian. "A friend just called. He's in trouble."

Mr. Chang nods, and hands her the tea. "What kind of trouble?"

"I'm not sure," she admits. Thad bangs into the house, sighing with relief from the heat. When Liz found out that he was alone in his big house and that he was afraid of storm, she took him in. And then, she put him to work: driving around Lima with food, water, and rides to cooling stations for the elderly.

"What's up, Quinn?" Thad asks.

She shrugs. Mr. Chang's hand is on her shoulder, in a gentle, almost fatherly way. It makes her think of her own father, back when he still loved her. "Sebastian called me and asked for help."

Thad whistles loudly. Blaine wanders out from the bedroom where he has been resting. He's got a bandage around his head, and a cross (for Blaine) look on his face. "Will you shut up?" He asks Thad, punching the older boy lightly on the arm. "I'm trying to sleep."

"Sebastian just called Quinn. He asked her for Help." Blaine raises his eyebrows at the significance. Apparently this means more to him, and to Thad than it does to her.

"I can't drive," Blaine points out. "And neither can Quinn."

"Hold up," Mr. Chang brings the teens back to reality. "What's the problem?"

Quinn sighes. "I don't know," she admits. "He called, and asked me to come help him. He's here." She holds out the paper where she has hastily scrawled Sebastian's current location.

Thad shakes his head. "Sebastian doesn't ask for help," he says. "He and Nick lived together for a year, and even when things got bad, he never asked for help."

"He asked me," She insists. A fire glows in her eyes. "He needs help. And, it sounds like he needs it now. Let's go, dammit!"

Thad turns to Mr. Chang, looking for guidance, perhaps. "Take some water with you," the man advises. "And Quinn needs AC."

"I'm coming, too!" Blaine is insistent. He heads off to get his leather satchel and unplug his cellphone from where it is charging. Thad goes to the kitchen for a sandwich and to collect more water bottles. Quinn and Tina's father stay where they are sitting. His gentle hand still rests on her shoulder.

"Take what you need," he says, quietly.

Her pride gets her. "I don't need anything," she says. She stands, gracelessly, and takes a few, tentative steps. She manages to hold herself up and ambulate, but it isn't fast or efficient.

"Take what you need," Tina's father repeats. His voice remains gentle, but the polite tone that bordered on impassivity has gone. Quinn wonders if he is seeing Tina in her place as he offers a piece of fatherly advice. "You can't take care of your friend if you're worried about yourself."

She sighs, and acquiesces.

* * *

The trio pull up to the gas station in Liz's Prius twenty minutes later. Thad drives a hand-me-down minivan that is only a few years younger than he is. The passenger side is scratched from hood to trunk, thanks to an unfortunate incident between the previous owner's daughter and a parking garage pylon. Thad is as proud of the beat up van as though it had been a Ferrari (and she suspects he's driven a Ferrari or two). He borrowed the money for it from his father, and is paying it off month by month. Even though it's Thad's baby, air doesn't circulate well through the boxy van, though. And, Quinn has trouble getting into the front seat. So, Liz graciously volunteered her car.

She sends Thad and Blaine ahead to find Sebastian, and then goes through the awkward motions of standing in the braces. She won't tell Mr. Chang, but he was right: she is still unsteady on her feet. Of course, Blaine is weaving more than usual, so her limp won't stand out. She wonders how hard he hit his head. She and Thad have been working together long enough that he has a sense of her limitations, but she doesn't want anyone from McKinley knowing. She wants them to think that what they saw at Nationals and Graduation is her reality, and not this daily fight with pain and mobility.

It's too hot in the full sun, and too humid. She glances over at the little black Saab Sebastian drives. She knows it because she's seen it around the parking lot a few times. Once or twice, they've gone to coffee together. Normally, they end up arguing afterward. She can't say our here, she realizes. So, she makes her slow, purposeful way into the gas station.

The boys are frozen. Thad's mouth is moving silently, and Blaine is unconsciously worrying at his bandage. She understands why when she sees the tall boy. He's perched precariously on a stool, his head resting on the pillow of his arms. She limps closer, and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. She can feel him breathing. It's deep and low, as though he's filling his whole lung with the breath, and not just the fraction she's used to using.

"Sebastian?" She asks. She breaks the spell. Blaine moves closer to Seb, and Thad moves back toward the coolers. They have their own water, but it seems like a good idea to buy something from the gas station to appease the employees.

Sebastian stirs, and lifts his head off his arm. His cheeks are rosy against his pale skin. He looks younger and more vulnerable than she's ever seen him. She moves closer, using the counter for support. She's not sure if the weakness in her knees is from her injury or concern. He manages to get his head all the way up. He rubs a hand across his face, re-enforcing the impression of youth. Blaine puts a steadying hand behind his former competitor's lower back. As she draws closer, something changes in Sebastian. He jerks upright for a moment, ram-rod straight and pale. Then, he doubles over. A pile of acrid smelling vomit barely misses her tennis shoes.

Thad hurries over with supplies he's purchased. He hands Seb a large cup of fountain drink. "Take it slowly," he advises. "It's Gatorade and water."

Sebastian grunts and pushes the cup away. "Water!" He gasps. His voice sounds dry as a leaf. "Please, the water."

Blaine shakes his head, and pushes the cup back into Sebastian's hands. "You need salt," he insists.

Sebastian doesn't fight this time, just takes the cup, and takes a long pull on the straw, then another. "Locked my keys in the car," he says, finally. He sounds better with the liquid in him. "Didn't know who to call."

As he talks, she notices that Sebastian's breath smells… odd. Like cheap fruit flavored gum, maybe. It's not a good smell.

Blaine goes outside to call Hummel Tire and Lube, and Sebastian takes another long sip of the watery sports drink. Then, moving faster than she would think possible, the tall boy with the pale brown hair bolts across the gas station to the men's room. Thad trails after, giving the attendants an apologetic look. She hopes he makes it to the toilet.

Blaine comes back in the gas station, his face shining and his dark curls damp. He wipes his face across his arm. "It's damn hot," he comments. He settles himself on Sebastian's abandoned stool, and puts his head in his hand.

She leans against the counter, her legs shaking from the stress. "Yeah," she agrees, half her mind on the conversation. She prays that she can keep her feet under her and that Blaine doesn't notice the quiver in her knees. She's noticed Sebastian shaking a few times before, but it's so subtle that no one else could see it. But, he doesn't have her problems. He's healthy. Finally, it's too much, and she is sure that her knee will give out if she doesn't sit. She eases herself onto the stool, perching on the very edge. Then, she wiggles herself back. She tells herself to relax. It's just Blaine. He's attacked the bottle of sports drink sitting between them, and she sips the water. She supposes he needs to keep hydrated, considering how much he sweats.

"Quinn, can I ask you something?" He sounds sincere. When she doesn't protest, he continues. "Why have you been avoiding us this summer?"

"I'm not avoiding you," She shrugs. "I'm busy with work."

"You work thirty-five hours a week," he says. "And, even assuming you sleep a lot, you still have about sixty hours that are free. You don't have a couple every week to hang out with us?"

She wants to snap. The old Quinn would have. The one before Beth. Maybe even the one after Beth. "My mom wants me home." Again, not a lie. Her mother has been more protective since the accident. But, also not the real reason. She can't drive. She can barely walk. It's easier to just sit at home and watch Daniel Radcliff, Rupurt Grint and Emma Watson grow up.

Blaine looks taken aback. Maybe she sounded a little harsher than she intended. Maybe the heat, or the pain, is getting to her. She tries to steer the conversation to safer topics, like religion, politics or Cooper Anderson's career.

Thad and Sebastian emerge from the bathroom at around the same time the locksmith from Hummel Tire and Lube arrives to open the black Saab. Kurt jumps down from the big tow truck, and walks inside, while Thad heads out to direct the locksmith.

"Thad, can you bring me my bag?" Sebastian asks. "The one in the front seat." His voice is dry as a whisper. He looks longingly at the half-full bottle of water she has drained. He is worn out, and there is a tiny crust at the corner of his mouth that she suspects is vomit.

She lowers herself from her perch slowly, almost sliding down. The impact jars her, and her brace locks as her left ankle begins to collapse. She steadies herself against the counter.

Kurt crosses quickly to embrace Blaine. "Yuck," the taller boy complains as he lets go of the shorter one. "You're all wet."

Blaine blushes. "Kurt, we've talked about this," he says, quietly. It's almost a bedroom voice with just a hint of a whine. "You glisten. Quinn and Rachel glow. People like Sebastian and Thad perspire. I sweat like a pig."

Sebastian snorts into his sleeve. Blaine glances over, and then hands him the big cup filled with water and sports drink.

"No!" Sebastian weakly puts the cup on the counter. "I'm okay. I just need my … medicine."

Blaine helps the taller boy back up onto a stool. "Just drink something," he prods, gently.

"Like Sebastian needs an excuse to drink," Kurt says, snidely.

She and Blaine exchange looks with each other. Their thoughts ran in parallel directions: heat exhaustion, dehydration, and danger. Sebastian was showing signs of the condition: thirst, exhaustion and vomiting. Mr. Chang had briefed them all that morning, reminding them that the weather was perfect for the dangerous condition.

"At least I can hold my alcohol, unlike some people who are always the designated driver," Sebastian shoots back, snatching up the cup and taking a gulp. If there is a slight delay in the comeback, well, no one says anything.

Thad returns with Sebastian's leather satchel, which the tall boy clutches close. "Kurt, do you mind driving Sebastian's car?" He asks. Kurt looks up at the former Wabler council member with wide eyes. "Quinn and Blaine don't have their licenses, and Sebastian probably shouldn't be driving."

Kurts face pales a bit, but he takes the keys and his sweaty boyfriend's hand. Outside, she sees the two talking hurriedly. Kurt runs his hand over Blaine's forehead. The curly-haired boy shields his eyes against the sun, and responds just as fiercely.

Sebastian's bag is transferred from the Saab to the trunk of the Prius, and the boy's cellphone is pressed into his hands. Thad makes a quick phone call while she sits with Sebastian, rubbing his back gently. Thad hangs up as Kurt and Blaine return.

"Does his breath smell funny to you?" He asks her in an undertone.

She nods. "Yes, almost fruity." Her response is not good, she can tell almost immediately. Thad lets out a frustrated curse, and goes to the counter to buy another big bottle of water. He pays for his purchase with a twenty, and refuses to take the change, although he does ask for a few extra plastic bags.

Kurt and Thad help Sebastian out to the Prius. They practically carry the larger boy between them. Blaine gallantly offers Quinn his arm. "Can I be your escort, my lady?"

She accepts the offer. And, if she leans a bit more heavily on Blaine than his joking attitude suggests, he doesn't say anything.

* * *

The emergency room waiting area is crowded when they arrive. Women sit in chairs together, fanning themselves with magazines. Sweaty children play at their feet, listless in the heat. Quinn and Sebastian cling to each other as Thad scouts out seats. Their gate is awkward and slow. They make their way to the check-in line.

Despite the fact that he has been barely conscious, Sebastian rallies at the desk. He's not his usual, haughty self, striking out with barbs against everyone. But, it's also hard to believe that he's been vomiting on and off for the past thirty minutes. Or that he drifted into semi-consciousness in the car.

Thad can only find one seat. She goes through the mental debate. It's good for her to stand. It's exercise her body needs. It takes energy, and it hurts. She lets Sebastian take the chair, and finds a place to lean against the wall. She focuses on two things: standing and making sure that Sebastian is still breathing.

Quinn starts when the triage nurse calls Sebastian's name. He stands, slowly. She recognizes something in his face, and stays back. Luckily for the people around him, there is nothing in Sebastian's stomach. She offers Sebastian an arm, but he ignores it. She wishes he would take her arm. She's feeling unsteady, thirsty and uncharacteristically weak.

The triage nurses looks between the two of them. "You can't both come back here," he says, briskly. She is a bit more used to male nurses after her fortnight in the hospital and rehab following the accident. But, with his tattoos, bulging muscles, and shaved hair, this man looks more like a member of the security force than a medical profession. "We have to treat patients separately."

"I'm not here as a patient," she protests. "But, my friend is confused."

The nurse glowers. She wants to shrink into herself, and reclaim Sebastian's seat. But, she steels herself, and gives her best "bitch stare". It's a look that has saved her reputation in more situations than she cares to admit. Well, her bitch stare and the ability to cry on demand. But, this behemoth doesn't seem like the type to acquiesce to tears.

Sebastian gives her a dark look. "Go sit down, Quinn." He says. "You look like you're going to fall down. And, we don't need two people having accidents." His voice is shaking again, but there is a quality she recognizes. Sebastian is trying to keep control of the situation. He is trying to convince everyone that everything is all right. He is the only person who believes his rouse, though.

She lets him go back, and walks slowly back to the seat. Her gait is more clumsy that usual, and she stumbles over the tiles. Someone else, even the girl she had been just four months ago, would have been able to catch themselves effortlessly. As she sprawls on the dusty, hard linoleum tiles, she is once again reminded that she will never be that girl again.

At least the floor is cool under her sweaty upper body. She stays prone for a minute or two, just breathing. She is panting shallowly, the way she remembers her father's English Bulldog, Monty, breathing in the heat. Lying there, she becomes aware of the wet patches under her arms, and the sweat at the underwire of her bra. If she was alone, or at least not in such a public place, she might just stay on the floor. Instead, she goes through the motions for righting herself. They were some of the first things the physical therapist had made her learn, right after he had trained her to fall safely.

Getting onto her back, and sitting slowly, she is quite certain her legs will not hold her. The dull pain she has been pushing from her mind has exploded into the forefront. Her left leg begins trembling of its own volition. It's the precursor of an attack; the tremors will make standing almost impossible.

Still on the floor, she scoots like a child. She is careful to avoid Sebastian's pile of puke. She can handle most emergencies, but bodily fluids make her … uncomfortable. She doesn't like blood, urine or vomit. A pair of strong hands steady her as she carefully lifts her body into the low plastic chair. She looks up into Blaine's sweaty face. Kurt hovers just behind.

Thad comes over with one of the hospital wheelchairs. "Sebastian will be back in a minute or two," he says in an undertone.

When she doesn't make any movement toward the wheelchair, Kurt flops down. He pats his lap, invitingly, and Blaine settles down. He fits perfectly against his boyfriend's chest. Her emotions vie between jealously and happiness for her friends. This time, happiness at their joy wins out.

"Remember that week we spent in these?" Kurt asks Quinn, mischievous smile turning up his lips.

"Proud Mary," she grins back, despite her exhaustion. "I was so sore afterward!"

Kurt laughs. Blaine and Thad exchange quizzical looks. "I was so hungry afterwards," Kurt admits. "And, I kept eating Puck's cupcakes."

"I didn't know you ate cake, Wa-Kurt," Thad quips. "Even when David made his amazing gluten-free, egg-free, diary-free, soy-free, sugar-free cake."

Blaine groans. "That was not cake!" He declares. "That was lemon flavored cardboard!"

It's her turn to laugh. "Maybe it would have been better if David used Puck's secret ingredient."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Do I even want to know what Puck's secret ingredient was?" She shakes her head and mimes locking her lips. "Was it like Finn's vitamin D?" She laughs, again.

Thad and Blaine exchange puzzled looks, again. "Are these OG things?" Blaine demands. It's Quinn's turn to look puzzled. "OG," Blaine explains. "Original Glee."

"Yes, dear." Kurt plants a long, lingering kiss of his boyfriend's mouth. The scale tips toward jealousy. As much as she is loathed to admit it, she hates being alone.

Just then, Sebastian returns. He looks cross. "Legs stop working, along with your mirror, Hummel?" He snaps. He still clutches his bag in the same way a child might hold onto a security blanket.

"Jesus, why did we come?" Kurt demands of Blaine, ignoring Sebastian.

The sweat tenor plants a quick, possessive kiss on his boyfriend's glowing face. "Because you're a wonderful human being." He leans in and whispers something in Kurt's ear, then looks at the older boy with large, pleading eyes.

She wonders how Kurt can resist anything when Blaine looks at him that way. She doubts she would have that kind of self control. Kurt apparently doesn't have the self control he needs, either, because after a minute, Blaine climbs off of his lap and the pair vacate the wheelchair.

"Show us your Proud Mary moves, Quinn," Thad prompts. He pats the back of the chair.

At the same moment, the ex-marine triage nurse comes and calls her name. She finds herself in an awkward position. "I'm not here as a patient," she hisses at Sebastian. He gives her an impassive look."

"Just go see the damn nurse," he says. "Standing by you is like standing next to a fucking oven. And, you're all flushed."

She's surprised he doesn't make any references to buns. Sebastian is snarky enough to bring up her pregnancy, but he doesn't. He must be quite sick, she decides.

Following the nurse presents a problem, though. Her lower body is listening to her less than usual. But, her pride will not let her show weakness. She is an ice queen. She is a bitch. She was the only sophomore to be named captain of the Cheerios in McKinley history.

"Quinn Fabray?" The nurse calls again. Sebastian gives Thad a significant look, and the swarthy boy whispers something in Kurt's ear. She decides she can keep _some _dignity if she moves over the wheelchair under her own power. Otherwise, the boys might try to force her to move.

She lines up for an efficient transfer, and Sebastian practically falls into her vacated seat. Then, she wheels herself quickly over to the nurse. "I'm fine," she says insistently.

The man shrugs, and takes the handles at the back of her chair. She hates the nurse, already. In the little room, he takes her temperature and blood pressure. The questions come quickly. She answers detachedly, rattling off her medical history and the medications she is taking.

The last question the nurse asks her is surprising, though. She's pretty sure it's illegal. But, that doesn't stop him. "Your friend who was just in here, he's 17?"

She tries to think about it. "I-I think so," she stammers. "He just finished his sophomore or junior year of high school."

The nurse thanks her, and sends her back out to the waiting room. She finds Kurt and Sebastian engaged in their favorite activity: verbal sparring. Thad is standing against the wall, his mouth moving silently and his eyes closed. She recoginizes prayer when she sees it. He fingers a small coin at his throat. Blaine has gone for something, probabably more water. Someone appears to have drained three bottles while she was gone.

She listens to the two boys for a few minutes. Sebastian's razor wit is a bit duller, and a bit slower than usual. Even so, their bitching is making her headache. "Will the two of you just shut up?" She finally snaps at them.

Both look up in shock. But, they stop. Sebastian curls into a smallish ball, impossibly compact for someone that size. He cradles his bag to his chest. He rests his head in his hand, and closes his eyes. Kurt walks over to Blaine, and whispers something in his boyfriend's ear that cause the curly-haired boy to swat at him.

Blaine takes the opportunity to press a cold water bottle against her neck. She jumps a little, and glares up at the curly-haired boy.

"That was cold!" She complains.

"That's the point," Blaine retorts. She gives him one of her trademark glares.

Before she can protest any more, a new nurse emerges from the double doors leading to the Emergency Room, the Promised Land. "Smythe," she calls.

Sebastian stands, slowly. All of his movements have been slowly, recently, she notes. "Might as well come back with me, Fabray," he says in his dry voice. "I doubt Hummel has a stomach for blood."

She waits outside in the hall as Sebastian changes out of his street clothes into the dull hospital gown. Although he's tall, the garment is too big.

"Turn around," she orders in a no-nonsense tone.

He glares, but comes around the bed so she can tie up his back. Her slender fingers nimbly tie up the back of the gown. "I could have done it myself," he announces, petulantly.

"Shut up," She rolls her eyes expressively. "And sit quietly."

The nurse comes in, another ex-army drill sergeant, comes in and writes his name on a white board. She glares and the board, and mutters something under her breath. The nurse glances at Quinn. "I need to get a urine sample," he tells Sebastian.

The boy holds his hand out. She imagines he's waiting for a cup to deposit his sample in. She has her suspicions about the way the urine will be collected. She knows from experience that catheterization is both painful and embarrassing. "I'll wait in the hall," she offers, trying to be magnanimously.

The nurse lets her back in after a few moments. He has to open the door so she can come through. Sebastian is sitting on the gurney. With the nurse's back turned, there is no one to see the grimace of pain and humiliation etched onto his face, or the dead exhaustion that shadows his eyes. His even features rearrange themselves into his normal cocky look as soon as he notices her looking. His eyes betray him, though.

She wheels carefully over to the bedside. The bulky chair makes maneuvering awkward, but she manages to wedge herself between the gurney and the wall. Her maternal instinct has kicked in. Sebastian shoots her a look of dark fury as she brushes sweaty locks of hair from his forehead. The nurse hands her a wet paper towel, which she rests on the boy's forehead.

Using her as a distraction, the nurse seizes an opportunity to stick an IV in Sebastian's left arm. "Shit!" He swears, squeezing his eyes tightly closed in pain. "Fucking vampire!" The nurse just laughs, and draws blood out of the IV port. Then, he hangs an IV bag, and leaves the room quietly.

They wait in silence. Sebastian keeps his eyes closed, and his deep breathing becomes even. As he falls asleep, his features relax from the haughty mask into an expression that isn't exactly peaceful, but is more comfortable than anything she's ever seen. She finds herself relaxing as well, even if the wheelchair is uncomfortable and the room bright.

* * *

The noise wakes her. She tries to keep her eyes closed and pretend that nothing is wrong. Her whole body hurts, though. It's not the pain that she's grown used to over the months since her accident. That's a dull ache she has almost learned to push to the back of her mind. Instead, her shoulders and back ache and her legs are on fire with a thousand tiny pins. She has to keep still, though. She cannot interrupt. Sebastian and the doctor are arguing.

"I'm fine!" The boy insists. "I'm not vomiting any more. I can treat the rest at home."

The doctor sighs. "I can't release you," she insists. "Not until you're below 200 and you don't have any more ketones."

"That's not what you're treating me for!" Sebastian retorts. "My friends brought me in for heat exhaustion!" She's pretty sure she can hear the doctor roll her eyes. Its more than obvious that Sebastian isn't here because of heat exhaustion.

"That may be why you came in," the doctor responds, "but I can't, in good conscience, release you if you're still sick."

"Can I at least go to the bathroom?" Sebastian demands. This is a more reasonable request than the last, because a few minutes later, she's alone.

She shifts in her seat, which only exacerbates the pain in her back. The pins and needles in her legs press at her consciousness, distracting her. A whimper escapes her throat. She can't help herself. It's all she can do to keep from screaming.

Sebastian returns, settles on the gurney, and reaches for the IV line. He fiddles with the tubing for a while, and then throws it down, frustrated.

"Do you want help?" She asks, praying that he will say no.

Sebastian surprises her. He moves over on the gurney. "Come up here," he suggests. "I'm going to call someone to reconnect this." She hangs back, though, as a tech comes in and re-connects the IV line. He hands Sebastian a Styrofoam cup with a glare and a quiet reminder.

He motions for her to sit with him on the gurney, "Come up here," he orders again, once the orderly is gone. "And drink this water. I'm not allowed."

She wants to, so badly. Although it seems counterintuitive, putting her feet up is one of the few ways to relieve the pain. On bad days, she lies in bed for hours, praying for sleep to claim her, and deliver her. She is suspicious, though. "Why?" she asks.

He shrugs. "Because the wheelchair can't be comfortable."

She looks at him skeptically. If this were one of her romance novels, he'd be doing this to win her love. But, she's relatively sure Sebastian is gay. He flirts with Kurt and Blaine shamelessly, and she remembers his conversation with Trent. He's not doing this because he could be interested in her, which means he must be doing this because he's a decent human being. It's hard to imagine the Sebastian Smyth she knows doing _anything _because he's a decent human being. But, there's more to him than meets the eye. There has to be.

"Fine," she agrees. She transfers from the wheelchair up onto the gurney. It's been a while since she did a full-on transfer, rather than standing and sitting, but her nerves are on fire with pain and aren't responding well. She winces again as she settles herself. She fishes in her purse for the vial of ibprofuen she keeps there, questioning whether the medicine will even work. At this point, even a placebo will set her mind at ease.

Once she settles, she turns to him. "I know something is wrong, here. Thad and Blaine and even Kurt were freaking out, bending over backwards. Kurt doesn't even like you."

"It's nothing." He says, brushing his now lank hair off his pale face.

She stares at him with an expression that has caused lesser men to turn tail and run. "That's bullshit. Why is the doctor making you stay if you're fine?"

He shrugs, but doesn't back down. "It's really nothing. I just had a … bad reaction to some, umm, medication."

"What medication?" She demands, feeling bold. There is something he's not telling her. She's determined to find out.

"Umm… Novolog." He says. She curses under her breath, and pulls out her phone. You can find anything on the internet these days.

"Sebastian, how long have you been diabetic?" She queries. She's trying to think if he's ever acted sick before. If there was any sign of the disease.

He's proud, or as proud as someone in a hospital gown with an IV line in their arm can be. "Since I was eight," he spits out. He's angry. "And, don't say you're sorry, unless it's your fault. Don't tell me about someone you know who has the disease, and how they lost their leg or went blind or something. I've met plenty of crips, already." The word stings her a bit. "And please, for the love of your child, don't you dare tell me you know what it's like. Because you can't imagine."

She feels like he slapped her in the face. But, she can't back down. "I had a spinal cord injury," she challenges. "Try me."

"Yeah, but you're getting better," he retorts. His face falls, collapsing into an expression of fear and mistrust. "You can fucking get better."

"I have good days and bad days," she says, quietly. Some days, she is entirely without pain, and she can walk. Others, she can't get out of bed. Surely, it can't be that bad. "And, at least you don't have cancer."

He slams his hand against the bed. "That might be better," he says. "At least without chemo, you have time." She can't help staring at him. "Without insulin…" his voice trails off, and he fiddles with his hospital bracelet. "Without insulin," he tries again, "I'll die in a day. Maybe two, if I'm lucky. I'll starve to death. And, eating will only make it worse."

He turns away. There isn't much room on the narrow cot, and he's restricted by his arm. But, he rolls over onto his bad side. She can feel the heat and anger radiating off his back.

The weak maternal instinct inside her flares to life. She wants to wrap him in her arms, and tell him that she'll take away his pain. She wants to show him how to fight his demons, the way she's fought most of hers. She wants to make everything better, just for a little bit. But, she can't. So, she tries rubbing his back. She can feel him trembling under her hand.

Sebastian sleeps fitfully on and off, and she pretends to be asleep whenever he stirs. She wishes she could actually sleep; it's one of the few ways she knows to escape pain. But, in a classical catch-22, her body won't relax enough to let her fall asleep because of the pain she's experience. Never mind that her head is buzzing, half with anger half with curiosity. She does a few secretive Internet searches when she's sure Sebastian is out. They leave her more confused than when she started.

Finally, Liz and Sebastian's father come to pick them up. John Smyth does not look entirely the way she expected. He is every bit in control, but the lines around his eyes are more from laughing than frowning, she suspects. He is shy, she suspects, a strange trait in a lawyer. And, just a bit reserved with his son, as though he doesn't know how to express his feelings. She remembers the rumors that Sebastian grew up in France, she wonders if his parents are separated.

She hates going back into the hospital wheelchair, but she doesn't have a choice. Like Sebastian said, she has good days and bad ones. Today is a bad day. Although, it seems that she is not alone in that. Clearly, diabetics can have bad days, too.

Thad and Blaine wait in the Prius. She can see _her _wheelchair in the backgate of the car. She could almost kiss Liz on the spot. Almost, because now Blaine knows she needs it. And, she knows that once she gets back to the Cohen-Chang household, there will be questions.

The adults say friendly goodbyes, but the teenagers don't speak as they part ways. This has been a strange encounter. It could be the end of their friendship… or the beginning.


	7. Chapter 7

After the hospital, he tries to avoid Quinn as much as possible. They somehow manage not to have contact until the second week of July. She goes to visit her sister in Chicago, and he spends most of the week with Trent, trying to keep his friend together. But, given everything going on, they can't avoid each other forever. Wes Montgomery's visit makes a new complication.

He, Leesha, and Cory are once again hanging out in the airy lobby of Children's. Even though he has a car, he stays and waits with the others while they wait for rides. They usually need to debrief, or at least find a release after their emotionally charged group meetings. More often than not, someone ends up crying. And, although he's loathed to admit it, he's cried a few times before.

This afternoon, it's Cory who is a bit misty around the eyes and red of the nose. He had limped into the meeting in obnoxiously orange shorts patterned with large turquoise hibiscus flowers and fuchsia hummingbirds. The pants seemed to indicate one of two possible outcomes. Either a sea breeze was about to start flowing through the room accompanied by soft ukulele music, or else multiple people were about to get migraines.

"My swim coach just told me they couldn't have me on the team," Cory sniffed once the group had settled down. "He said I was a liability."

"Asshole," He had muttered.

"Bastard," Jamie agreed quietly.

"Because of…" Maddie motioned to the black fiberglass and metal leg visible under the riot of colors.

Cory shrugged. "Maybe."

"Didn't you go low in the middle of state qualifiers last year and almost drown?" Leesha asked, her voice dry. She is edgy this week, harsher and more blunt that usual.

Cory shrugged, again. "Going in, I had the best time in the state," he argued.

"How was it justified?" Evie queried, gently.

Cory's head drooped. "Academics," he said. "Stupid English class." He launched into a story about how he almost failed last semester for inappropriate imagery on his Odyssey project. Jamie snorted approvingly when Cory admitted to using images of "Baywatch babes" for his sirens.

Leesha suggested Tom Felton and Nicholas Hoult, which earned her a dark look from Evie.

Now that the session is over, they return to the pertinent and important topic of appropriate sirens. Leesha is a fan of "any man who can play the cello" or what seems like most superheroes.

He offhandedly observes that he could _maybe _understand Cory's English teacher's problem if the image had been Daniel Radcliffe in "Equus", which leads to a snort of agreement from Leesha.

Somehow, the conversation descends into a debate about butts. Leesha whips out her phone and starts googling images of various body parts. Images of all six Avenger's asses come up between their three phones. He's leaning across the table, studying a photo of Jeremy Renner's wet flexing ass when Cory starts waving his phone (and Emma Watson's chest) at someone.

He glances up to see a blonde he knows all too well. He curses Cory under his breath; he's been trying to avoid Quinn since they parted in the hospital. His stomach has been writhing with nerves when he thinks about her, and his words ring in his ears at the most inopportune moments. He can't keep the thought out of his head: What if she hates him?

Without the comforting dark wood walls and blue blazers, it takes him a minute to recognize the boy at Quinn's elbow: Wes Montgomery. Then again, he's only met the legend in passing; but he's heard more than enough stories of the older boy to make him more than a little jealous. Wes not only knows everyone without revealing their secrets, he's the person they confide in. He's amazingly charismatic and a true leader, but fun at the same time. Wes arranged at least half the music the Warblers sang, in his copious free time between a job and the studying required to earn a place among the National Merit Scholars. He's not sure if Wes is a human being or not.

The older boy pulls out a chair for Quinn. He is a perpetual gentleman. "I'm Wes," he says, offering his hand to Cory and Leesha.

The pair smiles, warmly. Leesha already seems charmed by Wes and Cory is, of course, infatuated with Quinn. Leesha's reaction makes him question her taste in men, although perhaps not. Wes is a charming bastard. Cory he can hardly blame. Quinn has had plenty of boys crush on her: Artie, Rory, Mike, Nick, Thad, David, probably Wes… and those are just the ones he knows about. Hell, if he's honest with himself, she's the kind of girl he's love to date if he were straight.

"How are you, Quinn?" Cory asks. He grins, adoringly. He might as well simply be spewing nonsense all over himself like a fangirl for all the good it does his relationship with Quinn.

"Fine," she says. She is steadier than the last time he say her. Then again, so is he. If the two of them were on better terms, he might smile and ask offhandedly if today is a good day. She might smile, and make an off-handed gesture that he would respond to, telling her that he's woke up last night with a low blood sugar. But, they're not on good terms at all, so he doesn't.

"How are you, Bas?" She asks, turning to him icily. She is in full-on bitch mode, the queen of the schoolyard. The nickname, the one his mother uses, sounds like a rebuke. "Still worse than cancer?"

It's like a slap in the face. She hasn't forgotten. And, she's using it against him. She's nervous, though. Quinn is normally a political genius; her control of the social strata is almost Machiavellian. But, when she's afraid, she starts to lose her edge. She gets sloppy. If she were in top form, she would have remembered Leesha.

The dark haired girl looks between the blonde and the tall boy with a stricken look. Her hand moves unconsciously to the pale pink line across her throat. It's faded in the months he's know her to the point that it just looks like a crease in her neck. He remembers the livid red scar. He remembers the look of fear in the doctor's office. He's an asshole and Quinn is a bitch. They've fucked up.

"Shut up," Cory hisses. Leesha's eyes are brimming with tears. He's protective of his messed up little family.

Wes lays a gentle hand on Leesha's shoulder. He doesn't know the girl, but he feels compelled to try to comfort her and take away her pain. It has been a long time since Wes has looked at pain and not neededto take it away.

Cory reaches across the table to take Leesha's hand, but she snatches it away. "I'm fine!" She almost snarls. The younger boy ignores her, and struggles to his feet. He fishes for his wallet, and mutters something about frogs as he limps away.

Quinn and Sebastian are glaring daggers at each other. But, Quinn is beginning to crack. Tears are filling her big, blue eyes. The boy, too, is fraying at the edges. Wes doesn't think he'll cry, but something is wrong. He doesn't know what, but he needs to fix it.

Leesha is turning unnaturally pale as Cory comes back with a soda. He sets it on the table just out of the girl's reach, and waits expectantly.

He moves his glower from one girl to the other. "We had an agreement," he reminds her, conviction in his voice. She shakes off Wes's hand, and fishes in her bag. A few heartbeats later, Leesha reaches for the can, and opens it with trembling fingers.

The chirp of Cory's cellphone surprises all five teens from their uneasy silence. "It's my auntie," the boy announces, almost glumly. "She's going to be disappointed."

He tries to be encouraging to the younger boy. "Look, if you need to, call me later," he offers.

It's something he never would have done a year ago. He wouldn't have known how to answer the call. In truth, he still doesn't. But, he's learning with Trent and Nick, Cory and Leesha that it doesn't matter so much what he says (as long as it doesn't actively promote anything harmful) that just being there is usually what it takes. It's as much about listening and acknowledging the suckiness of the situation as trying to fix it. In fact, listening sometimes gives more comfort than solutions … as much as he wishes he could wave a magic wand and just make things better. Sadly, he's not that kind of fairy.

Wes looks at the remaining three teens. "Shall we make our exit as well?" He asks. Wes is comfortable with a lot of displays of emotion, but he prefers to have them happen someplace semi private, not somewhere anyone can interrupt. He has a feeling that when Sebastian and Quinn lose control, it could be catastrophic.

"Will you come, too?" Bas almost begs Leesha. He wants an ally or another neutral party, something so that he's not about to end up in a two-against-one argument. "If you call your sister, I'll bring you home."

Leesha shrugs and wipes a hand across her wet cheeks. She texts her little sister as the other three collect their things. They drive to a little coffee shop/cafe a few miles from the hospital campus. It's an odd enough time that they're some of the only patrons. Somehow, in the semi-privacy, the masks drop. Wes smiles genuinely and Quinn leaves the charade behind. She goes from looking serene to uncomfortable and vulnerable in half a second. Leesha isn't as good of an actress, she can be read like an open book. She jiggles her leg nervously under the table.

He half listens as Wes and Quinn talk about some shared history. The Asian boy keeps calling her Lucy, or trying to. He stumbles when he addresses the blonde as Quinn, as though this is a new alias for someone he has known for a long time. The part of him that is observing is jealous; there is no one who remembers him when he was younger, no one who has a hitch in their speech when they call him "Sebastian", except maybe his mother.

He watches Leesha. Her knee bobs. Maybe it was a mistake to ask her to come along. But, he didn't want to leave her crying in the hospital lobby. He feels oddly protective toward her. It's a strange feeling.

They order drinks, and he's a bit surprised when Wes orders herbal tea. Wes is a Warbler. Hell, he's The Warbler. And Warblers jones for caffeine the way addicts do. Automatic coffee makers have replaced alarm clocks in many dorm rooms at Dalton, and David has been known to threaten anyone who touches his espresso machine without permission. Trent is strictly forbidden. Blaine, and even his gay-faced honorary-Warbler boy-toy drink coffee like mother's milk. Nick likes green tea, but he's been pour liquid caffeine into brew. Jeff has his hot chocolate, but perhaps most famous is the pallet of bawls Meatbox has hidden somewhere in the dungeons under Dalton. So, for Wes to drink something without caffeine gives him pause.

He feels even more on edge when they settle at their table, and Quinn turns to Wes. "You're back eating?" She asks. Quinn loses her filters when she gets nervous. It's not so obvious if you're used to the snarky, queen-bitch incarnation.

Wes shrugs and takes a sip of his tea. "I'm at about half and half," he replies. "Not as bad as last year…" Quinn shudders almost imperceptibly and nods. "Actually, things are a lot better than last year." Wes tries to sound reassuring.

He listens to the discussion, but doesn't really follow it. Leesha buries her face in her chai. "We're being rude, Lu-Quinn," the Asian boy says.

"Seb started it," Leesha says glibly. She sounds young when she says it, but it diffuses some of the tension.

Quinn lets out a mirthless chuckle.

"Seb usually starts it," Wes agrees.

He feels a flash of anger. He's already on edge. Wes doesn't know him at all. They're not friends. Hell, they're barely acquaintances. He tries to play it off with snark. "I don't start things, I merely bring them to their logical beginning." He retorts. It's not very good. He's getting rusty. He takes a sip of his coffee to cover his embarrassment.

"Are you at Dalton, too?" Leesha asks, continuing to impersonate a younger girl. It's clear she's trying to make small talk and diffuse the situation. He's thankful. He wonders if this is one of her defense mechanisms. Leesha is a dichotomy. Sometimes when she's threatened, she gets stronger and mature. Other times, she falls apart and regresses to a child.

"I was," Wes says. "I graduated last year."

Leesha grins, missing the note of melancholy in the older boy's voice. "Where are you in school, now?"

Wes turns pink and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like Boston College. Leesha congratulates him on his brilliance, just like she did when she heard about Quinn's early admission to Yale. She asks him what he's studying, and then suggests that pre-med is not a real major. Leesha is back to being bossy. Somehow, though, she still seems young.

He can tell that she wants someone to ask her where she will be next year. No one does. He knows he could. She's proud of her admission to the small, liberal arts school she'll attend in the fall. Leesha is more of a big fish in a little pond type girl. But, he can also hear a note of longing in her voice as the others talk about their big name schools. Leesha has an unfounded inferiority complex.

"I'm glad I don't have to worry pre-med. I don't know how you do it," Quinn says, half teasing. It's the most relaxed he's seen her in a while. "I just have to read."

Leesha laughs. "English can be harder than math," she declares. "And math is usually harder than chemistry."

Quinn stares at the brunette in disbelief. "You're joking." He lets out a puff of disbelief, and Wes studies the younger girl.

Leesha's face breaks into a grin. "Don't tell me you dislike chemistry," she says.

"My only B in high school," Wes admits. Then, a look crosses his face. "Excuse me," he says, quickly exiting from the table. He disappears in the direction of the rest room.

Quinn just looks at the other girl for a minute. "I'm not sure we can be friends," she sounds serious. He would believe her if he didn't know her sarcastic side.

"Says Barbra 2.0," He shoots back, defending his friend. Quinn winces and takes a sip of her

"Barbra?" Leesha asks, clearly confused.

He smiles. "Com'mon, Lovelace. One of my old Glee competitors. She sang in Nude Erections with Quinn."

"Lovelace?" Leesha laughs. "And I'm the nerd? God, only you would pull out programing."

"Nude Erections?" Quinn asks, glaring.

He shrugs. "Your group was poorly named. Or was it meant as a double entendre?"

Quinn thinks about it for a moment. "I didn't name it," she finally responds. "I just joined to keep my boyfriend away from … someone."

Leesha grins. "I've heard of worse. Actually, it's kind of adorkable."

"Sort of like Mr. Schue," Quinn admits. She takes another sip of her drink.

They talk about choirs, and names and songs. Quinn gets a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, and pulls out her Johnny Cash collection. Leesha responds with some Dylan.

As they talk, he feels the tension slowly releasing. They're still bot a bit on edge. The fight hasn't been forgotten, but they can compartmentalize. They're on neutral territory again, like that first day in the office. It's a fork in the road.

He drains his cup, and realizes that Wes has been gone for a while. He excuses himself, and makes his way back to the bathroom.

He opens the door slowly, praying that Wes will be the only occupant. Luck seems to be on his side. The urinals are mostly empty and the single stall door is locked. He hears the sound of wretching over the musiak.

"Wes?" He calls, tentatively. He is not the kind of person who checks on other people in the bathroom and finds them throwing up. He's not sure what to do. He wishes Nick or Jeff or Trent were here. He might be better than David, but only because David doesn't do bodily fluids.

There's a pause, and then another heave. "I'm fine," Wes replies, weakly. "Just finishing."

There's a flush, and the stall door opens a few heartbeats later. Wes staggers out, weakly. His face is pale, his lips gray.

"Shit," He says, studying the older boy. "You're not fine."

Wes shrugs, and moves to the sink. He rinses his mouth out with some water, spitting but not swallowing. "It's a bad day," he says, non-committally. "Tomorrow will probably be better."

He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. Not that today is a bad day, but that spending today vomiting is an indication that tomorrow will be better.

Wes sighs, and raises his own eyebrows. He knows about the fight. "Everyone has good days and bad days," he tells the younger Warbler. "But you have to keep things in perspective."

He starts to glare at the older boy. Wes doesn't know what he's talking about.

"I imagine it sucks, having diabetes," Wes continues.

"How do you know?" He demands, a bit more forcefully than he means to.

Wes shrugs. "David called me in the middle of baking. I convinced him that Pavlova was a far better idea than a sugar free wedding cake."

"Thank you for that."

Wes laughs. "And you weren't even a victim of the gluten-free, egg-free, dairy-free attempt at baking."

"How? … What? …Was it even edible?"

"I don't know. I'm not a masochist. Sometimes the feeding tube comes in handy." Wes smiles for a minute, then winces, a hand going to his abdomen.

"Feeding tube?" He demands, confused. He's heard all sorts of stories about Wes. The boy is larger than life. Never once did anyone mention that he was too sick to digest food.

"Excuse me?" The older boy walks back into the stall. A series uncomfortable sounds which either emanated from the small space and echo off the hard walls.. He was having trouble deciding if they came from Wes, or a low bass section hidden somewhere in the bathroom. They're accompanied by a foul odor, like a baby after too much fiber.

When Wes returns, he's blushing. He washes his hands quickly and efficiently. "Bad day," he repeats. "… Isn't that what you and Quinn argued about?" Wes asks shrewdly.

He blushes, and nods.

"I'm going to tell you what I told her," Wes continues. "Everyone has good days and bad days."

He goes to object.

"Trust me," Wes says. "Everyone has good days and bad days. Even when you deal with the same shit every day." He motions toward the stall. "But, even on my bad days, I try to remember that there are people out there whose good days are worse than my bad days. I work with people who have trouble feeding themselves or communicating on their best days."

He gapes at the older boy, and smiles to hide his shame. Because he feels like an asshole. What Wes has said is true, absolutely true. He's lucky, and he forgets it a lot. He wants to hide somewhere, so the shame can go away.

Wes won't let him escape, though. "We should go back out," he says. "The girls have probably wondered if we've fallen in."

"Or else gotten into an argument about Redvines verses Twizzlers," He suggests. He doesn't really understand the appeal of either, although most of his classmates at Dalton are obsessed with one or the other. Only Nick and Jeff have the attitude that it doesn't matter which you buy, as long as you buy your licorice on sale.

"I like Panda," Wes admits as they make their way back, "but its not gluten free."

They return to the table to find Leesha and Quinn engaged in a deep discussion about religion and science. He laughs, for what feels like the first time in a long time.

They stay and talk for half an hour more, until his father texts to find out where he is. As they walk out, he pulls Quinn aside. "I'm sorry," he says, sincerely. "I was an ass."

"Apology accepted," she replies. "I wasn't my best, either. See you later this week?" She asks.

His smile is genuine, and not afraid.

_A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Pi-on-a-skateboard as both a bribe and sort of an homage to an disagreement we had over the last chapter. If you haven't read her stuff, especially _There's Something About Blaine _and you're anything of a Warbler fangirl or an angst whore, you should go do it._

_Secondly, I apologize for how long this has taken me to write. More than two months is kind of shameful. Thank you for sticking with me. I've had a few changes… moved cross country, started a new PhD program, and had a bad case of writer's block. I'm not going to promise an update schedule, but I have a few ideas of where this is going. I promise, its not getting abandoned._

_Reviews are like whole boxes of Raspberry Panda Licorice?_


	8. Chapter 8

_Dedication: For Allison. It's not your fault._

He's surprised, but not unpleasantly so, when Quinn shows up for work at his office on Monday. He's used to having her in Lima. He drives the two hours down to deliver the depositions and evidence that is coming almost daily. The two get lunch together, sometimes alone, sometimes with Trent or Thad. They shoot the breeze, talking about school and mutual friends and TV. Although it's not easy, Quinn finally gets him to admit that he has a crush on Michael Weston from _Burn Notice. _But, his father's office isn't the context for Quinn. The mall, or the Lima Bean or the auditorium are her realm.

"Hi Bas," she pulls him into a hug.

He turns pink, and twists out of the way. He doesn't mind affection in private. But, at the office, he reverts back to a cold, hard shell. No one here calls him by his first name, except his ever-formal father.

"She's as pretty as Smythe," Worthington whispers to Howell. The girl coughs to cover a laugh.

He might not be in middle school any more, but the bullies are still there. In his coworker's minds, there are three strikes against him. He's only in high school, not even entering college, and he has this job that so many pre-laws would kill for. They think it was his father's doing, which is both true and false. His father told him about the job, but he submitted the resume himself, before he left for France. Dalton, the letters of recommendation, and an interview before he left all helped. And, although no one wants the Lima-Columbus run, they resent him for taking it. Finally, there's the fact that he has fridge privileges. After his insulin got fried, his father makes him keep a bottle at the office. None of the couriers get to keep anything in the crowded refrigerators.

He takes her elbow, gently. He's noticed that she's having more steady days, but it's also a subtle gesture of ownership. "Let me give you a tour."

They walk slowly through the office as he points out which copier to use, and which drinking fountain to avoid.

"Liz kicked me out," She blurts out, sounding betrayed.

He raises an eyebrow, and makes a mental note to ask Trent about this. Dejected he could understand, but the betrayal doesn't make sense.

"They're prosecuting the guy who hit me in two weeks. It's in Findlay…"

He understands completely. "But Liz likes the appearance of impartiality." His father can be the same way.

"… So, I'm here." She leans against a table in the conference room.

He pulls out a chair for her, then goes for two cups of coffee. No one will need this conference room for another few hours. Having spent four months in a counseling group with Leesha and Maddie (sometimes Dr Blake as well), he can sense that Quinn is rattled.

Someone else would have taken this as an opportunity to share her problems with … a close acquaintance, but she doesn't. Instead, she spits the coffee and makes a face. "God, this is like motor oil."

He makes a face at her. "Who are you working for?"

She tells him, one of the more junior lawyers. "Probably more filing," she says. He silently agrees.

Once he's done with his coffee, and she's made it clear that she won't be drinking hers, he leads Quinn to her new boss.

He goes back to the motor pool to find that he'll be doing a scavenger hunt all over the city, picking up food and packages and depositions. They've been scheduled in the worst way possible. He pastes a cool, dispassionate smile on his face and takes his bag. Don't let them see you sweat.

He arrives back at the office around five. His fellow couriers are leaving as he enters. He drops his bag with the receptionist, and goes to find his dad.

Instead, he finds Quinn. She's in the little conference room, packing file folders into banker's boxes. Her brow is furrowed in what could be frustration or concentration.

"How was it?" He leans against the doorframe.

She sighs. "The organizational systems? Non-existant. The day? Dull."

He nods. "Would dinner make it better?"

He hasn't eaten today. There was roadwork along the most direct route, and it cost him his lunch break.

"I was going to go back and maybe cook something. I'm staying with Blaine and Wes," she clarifies. She thinks about it for a moment, and then adds, "Let me ask if they'd mind you coming."

Blaine and Wes are both busy. Blaine has a date with Kurt in Lima, and he's staying there. Wes' father is dragging him out for a night of bonding. Quinn frowns when she gets this message. She wonders if she should pick up some ginger ale on her way home, because the former Warbler captain will almost assuredly be vomiting tonight. Wes' father isn't very good at selecting places that will be gentle on his son's digestion. Wes isn't very good at saying no to his father.

They end up at a little Italian bistro downtown. He regrets the choice almost as soon as they're seated. The lighting is low, the tables are covered in white clothes, and there are candles everywhere. It would be the perfect place for a date, if they weren't both attracted to Josh Hutchinson.

He fumbles with his bag while Quinn read the menu. He flirts with the idea of testing his blood sugar, but decides against it. He hasn't tested in front of Quinn, yet. He barely tests in front of anyone. He hates to do it in front of either of his parents. He's maybe tested in front of Nick ten times, and they lived together for an entire school year.

He orders the chicken picatta; she gets risotto. Both drink water.

They chat for a while. It's fast paced, and light. The snark is entirely directed at other people. He shares the office gossip, and she laughs.

"I hate being here," she admitted. "I miss Thad, and Liz and home."

He doesn't know how to respond.

"I just wish I hadn't done it," she says.

"Done what?" He takes a sip of water.

He always drinks too much water at restaurants. He doesn't know if he does it because he gets bored, or because it's a defense mechanism inbreed by high blood sugars.

She stops to think about it. "Gotten in the car accident," she says, finally.

His father had been livid over the accident. He remembers some of the details, shared over carryout. "It wasn't your fault."

"I was texting," she points out. "I was distracted. If I'd been paying attention, I would have seen the truck barreling into the intersection."

He closes his eyes for a long moment, and then opens them again. "You had the right of way," he argues.

"Your dad?"

He nods and starts tearing apart a roll. The water is helping his hunger headache, but he figures that food can't hurt.

"If it wasn't my fault, why did this happen?" She moves her legs so he can see them, and lifts her pants leg so he can see the pink brace on her ankle.

This tact isn't working. He tries a different one. "Why did I get diabetes?" It's the first time he's mentioned his disease since their argument at the hospital.

She does a double take.

"I mean, it has to be someone's fault," he continues. "At least by your logic. So, whose was it?"

He takes a sip of water, lets her think about it.

"No one's." Her voice is quiet. "It's not your fault that you got sick."

Their food comes. His chicken is good, the acidic sweetness of the lemon playing well with the salty capers. He eats the first chicken breast far too quickly, as Quinn daintily eats her rice.

His initial hungar assuaged, he goes back in for the attack. "My mamam and I were moving when I was about twelve," he remembers. "She found this pile of old receipts from when I was first diagnosed. And, she was flipping through them. I don't remember exactly what she bought, but I remember her commenting that it was no wonder I'd gotten sick, with all the shit she was buying."

Quinn's eyes go wide. She's done some casual reading about diabetes, to educate herself. She's read about rotovirus, or steroids, causing the disease. No modern doctors she could find have associated sugar consumption with the loss of islet cells.

His voice is quiet when he continues. "… And the message gets re-enforced over and over again. I see it on the Internet. I hear it in pop culture. Even my so-called friends like to remind me it's my fault that I got this disease."

"That's bullshit." She has a knee-jerk protective response.

He shrugs, chewing an ice cube from his now empty water glass. "Bullshit or not, I sometimes wonder if it _is _my fault. And, I know my parents wonder, too. If I had done something differently… if they had done something differently… would I still have this?"

She lays down her fork. She wants to go around the table, and give him a hug. Under the snarky confidence and hair gel, Sebastian Smythe is just a scared, confused little boy.

"It's not your fault." Her voice is gentle.

"Neither was the accident," he says, firmly.

She understands, but she wonders how much of the reveal was to make his point. Sebastian would make a brilliant lawyer, if he could keep his pride in check.

They decide to skip dessert. The bill comes, and they squabble pleasantly over who will pay. Normally, they go Dutch, but he insists. He can be a gentleman, if he really wants to, even though he prefers playing the cad.

He offers his arm as they walk out, and she takes it. She's tired. He opens the passenger side door, and helps her into the low sedan.

In the driver's seat, he starts the car and turns on the radio. Then, he reaches into his leather satchel, and pulls out the small black case where he keeps his supplies. He shakes a small plastic cone from an old orange plastic pill bottle, and fits it to the end of a long, slender blue tube. He dials back a few clicks, the end spiraling out. He takes the cap off, and Quinn sees a hair-fine needle at the end of the device. He lifts the corner of his shirt, pulling it untucked from his khakis. Without a word to her, or any hesitation, he plunges the needle into his bare stomach. He depresses the plunger, and waits for a count of ten. Then, he pulls it out and packs everything away.

She doesn't know it, but this is the first time he's injected in front of someone who was not a medical professional, a member of the Dalton Academy Warblers, also diabetic, or related to him.

It's a sign of trust.

_A/N: This chapter has been bumping around for a while. I think it came to a head this week for two reasons. First, I was talking to my friend Allison, who has been struggling with some medical issues recently. She was freaking out about the correlation between alcohol and liver disease… and a few other things. Second, I was reading the New York Times while waiting for an assay. (All my homework was done, all my grading was done, and I feel really weird about writing at work. Besides, it was science!). I tend to read articles about diabetes, and a summary of a recent study showed that low vitamin D levels were correlated to the development of type I diabetes. The article concluded with the suggestion that type I diabetes could possibly be prevented in the future in the same manner as scurvy or rickets. Third, my sister and I have had these on-and-off discussions about how my mom blames herself for my multiple health problems (two autoimmune disease, depression, and a hormonal defect… fun combination). And, maybe I've internalized some of this blame and guilt. Anyway, I hope I've done the topic some kind of justice. I kind of don't think I have._

_I'm also going to shamelessly plug my One-shot sequel to this which is laden with Warbler fluff: Family Team. All your favorite people show up and are RIDICULOUS. You should read it, if you haven't... because it reveals secrets not known here. And or spoilers. It may or may not be cannon post _Thanksgiving, _but I don't care._

_In other news, the holidays are coming up and the semester is ending. Which means I will be ridiculously busy sleeping and grumbling and possibly reading articles. … Or finishing up my fanfic obligations for the year so I can start afresh in 2013. I have two more ideas for chapters here, sort of a continued arch. This involves college shopping, the woes of pumps in bras, and possibly embarrassing Thad. If there are other archs you want included, let me know so I can write them._

_Also, because this note is getting long (longer than a chapter of Control)… possibly because it's 1:38 am and possibly because I've been watching Vlogbrothers videos all day... shout outs to Pi-on-a-Skateboard, Different Child, Martina Malfoy LaStrange and YouDon'tKnowMe._

_Reviews are love_


	9. Chapter 9

She adjusts slowly to Columbus. It's hard. She feels like she'd been exiled by the trial.

She misses her mother, which may or may not be strange after their tumultuous four years. Growing up, she was her father's little princess and her mother was the perfect wife. Then, she got pregnant, and everything changed. She got kicked out and moved in with the Jones. Dr. Jones was a pediatrician, and she and the other Dr. Jones had balanced their careers when Mercedes' older brother, TJ had been born. When she moved back in with Judy, after Beth and the divorce, it was like they were strangers. They still fought like mother and daughter, but that was the only way they communicated. After her accident, somehow, the relationship changed. Judy opened up to her daughter. It turned out that Quinn's mother had hopes and dreams before she married Calvin Fabray. There was more in Judy's head than china patterns, church socials, charity balls and clean carpets. Quinn isn't sure she wants to grow up to be a woman like her mother. In fact, if she had to choose, she thinks that growing up to be Liz Cohen wouldn't be bad. But, Judy Fabray is a close second.

She misses New Directions, which is strange after he self-imposed exile. She misses sitting by the pool in her stylish one-piece watching Puck, Finn, Mike and Sam play each other in two-on-two basketball or chicken fights with Artie and Finn against Blaine and Puck. She misses sleepovers with Tina and Mercedes where Tina would paint her nails and Mercedes would turn up the music and they'd dance until Mr. Chang threatened to make them go sleep outside. She misses shopping expeditions with Kurt and Rachel. And, she misses sneaking into movies with Santana and Brittany. Even if the other girls just sit in the back row and make out, it's still fun. She hasn't paid for a movie ticket since she began high school. They Skype and Facebook, but it isn't the same. She misses her friends.

She misses her office. Liz was a good boss; she encouraged her to set up an organizational system and made sure the girl was comfortable. Tina's mother was more likely than her employee to send the blonde home on days she was in pain. And, Thad isn't a bad person to work with. Worthington and Howell and Carlyle and St James (Jesse's more ambitious sister) are a tight little clique. No one wants to play in the sandbox or share their cookies and juice with the new girl who walks funny.

The only bright spot in her life right now are Sebastian and her housemates.

Sebastian still has the Columbus-Lima Courier run, so he's not around as much as she'd like. But, he's made a point to bring her coffee in the morning (drinkable stuff from Starbucks or that he brewed at home) or sometimes a cup of tea. They don't have lunch together, but on nights he doesn't have support group and she doesn't have PT, they'll eat dinner and gossip. He brings her all the exciting, and not so exciting news from Lima. Like the fact that Tina and Mike have broken up. Or that Kurt has _finally _found the zebra print hoodie Mercedes used to wear when they were sophomores and is having a ritualistic burning of it in the Cohen-Chang's yard. (Okay, so most of the gossip is Cohen-Chang related, but that's okay). He also mentions that he's going to kill someone if he has to go to the Gap with Trent one more time. She makes a mental note to drag him into the offending store before the end of the summer.

At first, she thought it would be strange to live with two boys, even if one of them was gay and the other she'd known for most of her life. This is her first time living with only guys. She never had brothers growing up, and all her male cousins were older and lived far away. Her daddy was the only man she'd ever shared a house with, and they'd never shared a bathroom. The truth is that it takes a bit of getting used to. Even in the Anderson's palatial home, she somehow manages to find toilets with their lids up. She's screamed both times she's fallen in.

Blaine, or more likely the housekeeper and maid, set up a suite of rooms on the first floor for her. There was a sitting room that connected to a garden, a small bedroom and an in suite. The walls were a soothing gray and decorated with seascapes. The bed had been made up with a neat gray spread, but she replaced it with her pink and blue quilt from home. Her grandmother had made it for her when she was five out of pieces of her old baby clothes and scraps left over from dresses she'd worn. And, amid squiggly patterns, quilted into the fabric were hearts, stars, 5's and the letters L, Q, and F. The floors were hardwood, without rugs, and the bathroom spacious. When she'd first seen the grab bars, she'd asked Blaine if he'd installed them. "My great grandfather lived here," Blaine explained sheepishly.

Her wheelchair mostly stays folded in the closet. Blaine and Wes didn't do anything but offer to help when her mom unloaded the wheelchair, crutches, and shower chair from the car. They seem to have decided that she will talk about it, if she wants to, but they don't push in. In return, she doesn't ask about the butter compartment labeled "Blaine" or the crisper drawer full of bottles of adult formula. Wes and Blaine have rooms upstairs, above the kitchen. Wes' room feels more lived in than Blaine's, which is strange because this is the Anderson's house. She's been in both rooms a few times, but the stairs are hard.

There are lots of visitors to Chez Anderson. Kurt spends a few nights, although not as many as he'd like. Burt is strict about the boys sleeping over together, and even more so when he knows that Blaine is without adult supervision. Nick and Thad each come for a weekend, and David stays for a week.

Living without parents and working a job makes her feel mature. So, at some point during David's visit, over grilled pizza for the three who eat solid food and beef broth for Wes, she suggests a dinner party.

Wes seems on board, immediately pulling out black pen to jot down a list of people he things they should invite. It ends up being half of New Directions and most of the Warblers. David takes the stairs two at a time to find his computer so he can start looking up recipes. Only Blaine seems a bit put off by the idea. He's resistant to have a bunch of people over after seeing Warbler parties. Not to mention the Rachel-Berry-House-Party-Trainwreck-Extravaganza. Although, he admits later that he'd love to see Santana and Sebastian make out the way he and Rachel did.

She's only a little surprised when Blaine agrees to let them have the party, although he caps the guests at ten people, not counting the four already living in his house.

She's somewhat more surprised when Wes invites her to the stationary store to buy supplies for invitations, menus, and place cards. For an ostensibly straight man, he is very conscious about the weight of his paper. She doesn't know why, but she's delighted when Wes pulls out a set of calligraphy pens and starts writing. They're not just the calligraphy markers, but actual pens with nibs. When she says something, Wes blushes and mutters something about time in the hospital and infusions taking too long.

A few days before the party, they have a council of war over the menu. David sits at the kitchen table in a pile of cookbooks. Wes has the yellow legal pad and a pen. The boys joke that the Dalton finches' scratches in the dirt are more legible than Thad's handwriting. David's writing makes Thad's look like something typed in Helvetica.

"What should we cook?" David asks, nervously.

"Chicken?" She isn't sure who is paying for the dinner party, but it's not a bad way to feed a lot of people. They're had all fourteen guests RSVP in the affirmative.

"Is Nick still vegan?" Blaine had never understood his friend's refusal to eat animal protein. But, Nick had also never attempted to make weight while fighting his body. There had been a time when animal protein had been the only thing that made Blaine feel full.

"Yep." David sighed, "Also gluten-free."

"I don't eat gluten, either," Wes reminded his friend. "I would think you, of all people, would remember that."

Blaine puts his head in his hands. "Edible statues should only be made out of structurally strong baked goods like pound cake or chocolate. Gluten free cake is like dry sand."

"Soy gives Thad gas," David contributes.

Blaine idylly flips to an article in one of the cooking magazines, featuring pictures of rats. The real kind, not the Pixar variety. He pushes the article toward Wes. "And soy shrinks your balls."

"Duly noted." Wes carefully folds over the corner of the page and passes it back across the table.

David chooses to ignore the former lead soloist's comment. "Do you remember Sectionals my freshman year?"

Wes glances at his hands and turns a charming red color. "The one where you went on stage with only eleven members because Thad and I were having a discussion of the qualities of poop?"

Blaine looks at the two older members of the Warblers. "Is this a Warbler legend?"

She isn't sure when the sophisticated, dapper gentlemen she's been living with turned into five year olds, but it's clear they have.

Wes catches her eye. "Nah, it wasn't that great." He rescues the conversation. Or else he doesn't want to talk about bowel movements now. Either way, she's grateful.

She tries to steer the conversation back to their menu. "Tacos?" She suggests. "You can make vegan tacos. Or at least, Rachel used to."

David looks at Wes. "Fiber?"

"Liquid diet," Wes responds cryptically.

David and Blaine both make faces. "You're no fun to have at a party," David complains.

"… Although, we may want to keep Thad away from the beans, too, if we don't want a repeat performance of the post-sectionals dinner two years ago," Blaine suggests quietly.

"The expression on Kurt's face. I don't think he knew the human body could be quite so… Orchestral." David's smile splits his face.

"You didn't have him your room!" Wes exclaims. "He spent half the night in the bathroom and the other half moaning. You guys can be such babies when you're sick."

David extends his hand. "Pot, kettle. You're black."

Wes sticks out his tongue.

She rests her head against the table with a quiet thud. The boys glance at each other. Now is not the time to relive their glory days as Warblers.

Wes neatly prints TACOS: RICE AND BEANS; CHICKEN. "Should we do all corn tortillas?"

Blaine makes a face and mutters, "Rubber."

"… Or a mix of corn and wheat?" Wes ignores the picky younger boy.

They work through most of the sides without too much fuss or mentions of bodily functions. She is amazed at how much the Dalton boys know about each other's eating habits. The only reason she knows that Rachel doesn't eat anything from animals is because the girl is _so _vocal about it. Although, Rachel cheats a lot. She wonders if this is why the brunette's special vegan powers haven't manifested. (She and Wes have been going through Blaine's extensive collection of movies. They're on a Michael Cera kick right now. She thinks she might be in lesbians with him, but she doesn't want to move too fast.)

They move onto dessert.

Wes talks David out of one of his infamous cakes, citing the heat. He doesn't mention that most gluten-free cakes are still too rich for him, and that he doesn't want David trying, only to be disappointed when Wes either doesn't eat the sweet or spends most of the night throwing it back up.

"Crème Brule!" David suggests, excitedly.

Blaine informs his friend that his parents only let people of legal drinking age operate torches of any variety in their home. Quinn limps out to find a flashlight, and shines it in Blaine's face. The ravenette sticks his tongue out at her.

They finally decided on flan and fresh berries. It satisfies David's desire to make a custard with Wes's desire not to eat dessert and Blaine's requirement that there be no fire.

She wonders how the Warbler council got anything done.

The day of the party does not begin well. In the pale gray pre-dawn, the house is alive with sick teenagers.

A knife is cutting into her leg.  
Her leg is a knife.  
Small and hard and tight.  
Cutting into her.

She wakes to a haze of pain.  
She does not know what time it is.  
She does not know her name.  
She does not know how to make it stop.  
Beneath the covers, her legs spasm.  
That's what they are right? Legs? Not just aches?  
She concentrates on breathing.  
In. Out. In. Out.

She dissolves into pain.  
Into fear  
Into darkness  
Into gray.

Wes knows he's going to be sick. Again. He leans forward from his pillows, looking into the trashcan already half-full of yellow-brown slop. He grips it awkwardly, his left hand protesting. He hasn't wanted to say anything, hasn't wanted to think about it, but lately, his hand has been swollen. The can back on the floor, the splays his palm, then tries to make a fist. He can extend his fingers all the way, but it feels like someone tied rubber bands to his fingers as he tries to make a fist.

He goes through the list in his mind. He's already disconnected the feeding tube from the bag, and flushed his port with saline. He'll go down and get his medicine in a minute or two, once he's sure that his body has stopped rebelling. And, possibly, after he's peed.

He knows what's coming. Today is his meth day, as David calls it. Spoonie humor, really. His methotrexate injection drains his energy. It leaves him feeling hung over and achy. It will make him dizzy, too, like he's spent too much time in the car. And, those things will make him cross.

At least he's learned to manage the nausea and diarrhea, not like that wasn't a problem already. But, the injections are supposed to help with those particular problems. Small price to pay, he supposes, for not throwing up all his medication. It's not like he's the only one in the house with syringes. David has his epi-pen, for bees. He assumes that Sebastian injects, or else sticks those inch-long needles in his abdomen. He's seen Blaine inject multiple times a day. He's given Blaine injections.

A sixth sense tells Wes that something is wrong. He slides out of bed, his feet hurting as he takes his first few steps of the morning. He hobbles and hitches up his pajama pants. They're getting to big on him, again. He supposes he could just wear boxers to sleep in, like the others, but he's not an exhibitionist. And, wearing pants hide some of the sins. His thighs and calves were once strong from dancing. Now, they're shadows of their former glory. The fatigue, the inability to lift things, the weakness, it's a price of his disease.

In his closest, his pants are arranged neatly in stacks. Gray flannel Warbler's trousers. Tailored chinos. A pair of black dress pants. Two pairs of jeans. There are three or four piles of the same thing. Arranged by size, almost like a clothing store. He's been losing weight over the past few months. Well, not just weight loss, but cachexia. Wasting. His muscles are disappearing along with the pounds. He hangs onto the larger sizes as a reminder that someday he will be healthy again, someday he will be able to gain weight. Someday, he will eat.

He meets David at the top of the stairs. The younger boy is dressed in running shorts and tennis shoes. The two best friends study each other for a minute. David notes the overly-large pajama pants that fit well two months ago, the dribble of dried brown vomit on Wes' chin and the way the older boy gingerly takes steps.

"Can you go check on Quinn before you go out?" Wes asks, moving toward Blaine's room.

David shrugs. He's used to his friends sometimes seemingly odd requests. If it quiets Wes's concern, he'll do it. If Wes goes back to bed and his feeding, even better. David wonders if he should skip his run, or at least post-pone it until Wes is back in bed and getting food again. David is worried about his friend. He knows Wes too well. The older boy won't keep secrets intentionally, but he won't volunteer information if he doesn't have to. And, he'll minimize what he does say. It's not because he wants to lie; it's because Wes protects the people he loves.

Wes knocks on Blaine's door. There's a moan in response and Wes pushes the door open. Blaine is sprawled across the bed, a tangle of long tan limbs, wild black curls and crisp white cotton sheets. Wes can see the thin white line across Blaine's back and shoulders. They stand out against his bronzed skin.

Blaine thrashes and mutters. Wes puts a gentle hand on the ravenette's shoulder. He's covered in a thin layer of cold sweat. "B, wake up. It's just a dream."

The younger boy whimpers, and rolls over. His face is ghostly pale, his lips hold a blue tint. Wes takes the small black case from beside the bed, pricks Blaine's finger. Blaine moans, and blinks. He pulls his hand away, but not before Wes milks a few drops of blood and puts it on the strip.

The meter counts down and blinks to life with a number. Wes reaches for a juice box on the nightstand, and fumbles the straw free. His fingers resist making a fist, like rubber bands tightening across his knuckles, but he gets the straw in and passes it to Blaine.

The younger boy sips the juice, weakly at first, then greedily. The color returns to his face as the sugar works its magic.

"Wes?" Blaine's voice shakes.

"I'm here, B," the older boy says gently.

"I had a nightmare. That Kurt and I broke up. And I was drowning. And no one could see." Blaine's cheeks are wet.

"Shhh." Wes rubs Blaine's shoulder gently. "It was just a bad dream. You and Kurt are going to stay together. You guys are meant to be."

"S'Okay," Blaine mutters sleeping and turns on his side away from Wes. "Ok, Wessy." The sugar has worked its way into his system, and the ravenette is sleepy.

"Sweet dreams, B," Wes whispers, setting an alarm on his watch for fifteen minutes. He goes back to his room to lay down.

David knocks on her door. There's a moan through the door. David hasn't been in the girl's room before. He feels strange doing it, but he decides the worst thing that could happen is be embarrassment from walking in on a not-quite dressed Quinn.

He's slightly disappointed when he opens the door and finds a fully dressed Quinn in bed. Silent tears run down her cheeks, and she grips the edge of a handmade quilt with white knuckles. Her legs are shaking and twitching underneath the covers.

David doesn't know what to do. Wes has always been the one to care for the sick. Even when Wes was sick, he'd be the one to comfort his friends. David can feed the hungry and clothe the naked. He can burry the dead. But, he's not sure he can do this.

"Quinn?" David calls her name. Names have power.

"Hmm?" She stirs, makes and effort to come to consciousness. "Bac'fen?" She moans.

He guesses it must be the name of a drug. He doesn't see any pill bottles around, so he quietly goes into the bathroom, all the while feeling like the worst kind of intruder. He finds the pills and comes back with a glass of water. He helps Quinn to sit up, and gives her the pills and the water. She whimpers thanks, and curls back up in bed. David slides out, leaving Quinn to her sleep and her relief.

He thinks about going out on his run, but decides against it. He's been a Warbler long enough to take care of the little details. The boys are accident-prone enough that any leader has to be able to handle an emergency. David may feel faint around blood, vomit, and needles, but he can take care of the little details none of the other boys seem to think about.

He calls up Sebastian.

"What the fuck, David?" Sebastian is not pleased to be awoken. "It's six fucking am."

"Quinn's not coming to work, today." David ignores the senior's bad mood.

"Call Marilyn." Seb supplies the number, and they hang up.

David goes back up to check on Wes. He finds the older boy asleep, clutching his trash can full of vomit.

She sleeps fitfully, but when she wakes up to bright sun, she only has lingering pain. It's not the sharpness, just the ache that comes with a muscle clenched for too long. It's a mark of how bad she feels that she doesn't even contemplate walking. She pulls her chair from her closet, and wheels into the kitchen.

"Tea?" David offers her a steaming cup of something herbal and a buttered English muffin. He is always feeding people. It's an absolutely endearing trait. She accepts it, and sips. He's added honey.

"I've talk to everyone but Santana, Thad, and the Criminally Insane Meerkat." Blaine puts his phone on the kitchen counter. "They all understand."

She stifles a giggle as David glances over at the other boy. "Criminally Insane Meerkat?"

"Sebastian."

David snorts with laughter, too.

"You canceled?" She is disappointed.

David glances at Blaine. "It's almost two pm. You called in sick to work."

A toilet flushes in another part of the house. "And Wes is vomiting, again." David tries, unsuccessfully, to hide his worry.

"But, I thought…" her words trail off. She's not actually all that sure about what is wrong with Wes.

Blaine shrugs. "Just ask him, okay? It'll be better that way."

"Are you going to go back to bed, or …" David suddenly sounds uncomfortable.

She finishes her muffin. "I'm going to shower, and maybe watch a movie? I don't feel up for much." She glances, unconsciously, at her rebellious leg.

David nods. "B and I might go grocery shopping in a bit. Do you want anything?"

She's feeling awful and self-indulgent, so she gives David money to buy her comfort food before she takes a shower. It's out of their way, but she pouts prettily and the boys agree to go get her Sonic. She has a craving for tater tots.

Sebastian arrives at the house around six clutching a bouquet of flowers. He's not entirely sure who is playing hostess, but he thinks that either Quinn or Blaine will like them. He is not, as some people think, entirely uncouth. He is, however, cross. His blood sugar is running high. His dad is nagging him again about getting a constant glucose monitor. Like he wants _another _small, noisy electronic device strapped to his stomach twenty-four hours a day.

Blaine opens the door. "Hi Sebastian." His voice is flat, and his smile seems forced.

"Oh, shit," David comes out of the kitchen wiping his hands on his cargo shorts. "I thought I called you and told you we had to cancel."

Sebastian finds himself blushing. "Sorry," he says, turning to leave.

Just then, she appears from the back of the house. She's sitting in her black wheelchair, barefoot and dressed casually. She looks tired. "Oh, hi Bas."

"Hi Quinn," he extends the flowers at someone, begging _someone _to take them, so he can make his awkward exit. "I thought I'd just drop these off, and … go."

She frowns. She's disappointed that her party had to be canceled, frustrated with her body and still irrationally tired. Perhaps, most importantly, irrationally tired.

"Stay," she commands, taking the flowers and wheeling herself toward the kitchen.

Behind her back, the three boys shrug. Then, they follow to make sure disaster is avoided. David returns to the stove, where he's making pasta. Blaine cuts vegetables for a salad Quinn seems to be floating off in her own little world. He offers to help, but when nothing is needed, he excuses himself to follow her.

He's surprised at the size and opulence of the Anderson's home theater. The floor is covered in deep crimson carpet, and one of the walls is occupied by a huge flat screen tv blaring the problems of the Bluth family. One of the paneled sidewalls is open to show a stack of gaming systems and a tangle of stereo equipment. A plastic drum pad and a few guitars sit in the corner awaiting a session with Rock Band. Quinn is curled, cat-like, at one end of a dark leather couch. Her lids rest at half-mast, and her face has relaxed into an expression of pain. Wes is asleep sitting up at the other end. A bag of brown … something runs through an IV line into his body.

He moves to pause the tv show, but Quinn makes a moan of protest. He leaves the TV alone, and goes back to the kitchen.

Blaine sees Sebastian's face, and slides a can to him across the marble island. He has to admit, he could use a drink.

He glances at the label. "Hobbit, are you trying to poison me?"

Blaine shrugs. "I just figured…"

"You just figured what? That I can't eat sugar?" Sebastian's lip curls in disgust.

David glances between the two. "Blaine, let him kill himself if he wants to. Seb, let it go. He didn't mean it that way."

David remembers a stop for slushies. He remembers watching his friend rolling on the ground crying, a hand over his eye. This is not an argument he wants to watch now, not with the only people who seem to be able to handle Sebastian either in Australia or doped up on muscle relaxants.

Eighteen months ago, Sebastian would have taken the anger calmly, then gone home and ran until his feet bleed. A year ago, he would have lashed out with harsh words. Six months past, he might have indulged in the feeling of over dosing and gone out dancing. Now, he just takes a few deep, steadying breaths and counts to ten. He can always take a sip from the fifth under his bed, later.

"Look, I'll just have water," Sebastian suggested. "No carbs, no fake sugar."

Blaine frowns. "We have juice… tea… beer… Gin…"

David gives the two boys a warning look. "As hilarious as it would be to watch the two of you make out and release your sexual tension, I want it to happen on a day when Wes and Quinn can watch."

"Water," Sebastian repeated, "Please."

Blaine got a glass, and filled it from a purifier on the refrigerator. "Why don't you drink diet?"

"Why do you?" Sebastian countered, accepting the cup.

Blaine shrugs, and slips a kit out of the fridge on this way out.

"Is he? … Does he?" Sebastian turns to David, his mouth agape.

David shrugged, draining the pasta over the sink. "It's not my business." He sounded more frank that usual.

Sebastian raised his eyebrow. "Is he Trent's old friend?"

David shrugged again, tossing the noodles with olive oil and cut herbs. He tasted the sauce on the stove.

"Slice that loaf of bread."

Sebastian complied with the order.

"Shall we eat with Wes and Quinn?" Blaine prompted, sliding the black case back in the fridge.

The other two boys shrugged as they made up four plates.

"Wes?" Sebastian asked.

David glanced at Blaine. This was Warbler business; they cared for their own. And, Sebastian was undeniably a Warbler. Possibly more so than Blaine, since Sebastian had never left Dalton.

"He's sick," Blaine supplies. "He'll eat later."

The five sit together pleasantly, eating their pasta and watching the Bluth family continue with their tribulations.

"I've always wanted a stair car," Wes mused once he had been roused from his nap. "Think about how awesome that would be for off-campus performances."

David snorts with laughter. "As if anyone would ride in that monstrosity with you."

"Thad would," Quinn comments.

Sebastian nods. "Thad totally would."

"There is very little I can't imagine Thad doing on a dare," Wes says.

Blaine considers for a minute. "Eat soy riblets?"

"He's done that," Sebastian points out. "After we lost sectionals, he bought every boca product in the freezer section and had a soy pity party."

"It shrinks your junk." David announces.

She glares at him. "I'm eating! I don't want to talk about genitalia! … Although, that's something Thad won't shut up about. He thinks penis is the funniest word in the English language."

"That's because it is!" David announces.

"Especially yours," Sebastian mutters.

She make a move to transfer from her couch to her wheelchair. "You're assholes. I'm leaving!"

Sebastian notices that she's less inhibited than normal. He wonders if its because of th medication.

Wes shifts in his seat, tugging on the brown line running underneath the blanket. "Stay, Quinn," he orders gently. "I'll make them stop."

Dinner continues without incident or more talk of penises. Instead, they talk about college (where Quinn, David and Wes will be going in the fall), show choir antics ("She _really _wanted you to weld? Is that even legal?") and tv ("I couldn't do Matt Boomer, although he is georgous. He looks too much like my brother.").

After Sebastian excuses himself to the bathroom to inject, he and Blaine do the dishes together. David and Wes have disappeared, and Quinn is curled up with a Say Yes to the Dress Marathon. Kurt has been over enough to get her hooked. Or, more accurately, Rachel got Kurt hooked. And, Kurt got Quinn. They work together in companionable silence, Blaine putting away food and Sebastian washing.

As he slides the left over salad into the refrigerator, the butter drawer slips open and an all too familiar white and maroon box drops to the ground.

"Blaine?" Sebastian's tone is uncertain.

The curly haired boy scoops up the bottle and ignores him.

"Have you ever thought about how awesome it would be to date another diabetic?" Sebastian's voice is silky. "I mean, think about the advantages. You wouldn't have to explain about the scars or the fat, or what you're doing or why."

"I'm with Kurt," Blaine says firmly. "I love Kurt."

Sebastian runs a sponge around the inside of the colander. "Lighten up, I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just asking a question."

"I love Kurt," Blaine repeats finally.

"It wouldn't kill you to have a discussion," Sebastian says coolly. "A lot of relationships between seniors and freshman don't work out."

Blaine dries a glass. "Kurt isn't a freshman. He's staying here." Deep down, he knows that his boyfriend needs to go and be free. He just can't admit it to himself, yet. "We'll be fine."

"Sure." The word comes out like a condemnation.

The silence in the kitchen becomes pregnant and unfriendly. "Sorry," Blaine apologizes after a minute. He doesn't know what's he's apologizing for, but he's too uncomfortable to let the silence stand.

"It's fine," Sebastian says. The tension remains.

He's standoffish as he says his goodbyes to Quinn, David and Wes. He promises to go shopping for school supplies with the older girl, and hugs the two boys. He shakes Blaine's hand, friendly but cool.

She gets ready for bed early, and lays there listening to the sounds of the house. David and Wes bicker quietly off somewhere. Blaine murmurs to Kurt on his phone in his room. She feels alone.

EVERYTHING OK? She texts Sebastian.

FINE. WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME BLAINE WAS DIABETIC? He texts back.

HOW IS IT YOUR BUSINESS? She returns. ITS NOT LIKE I TOLD HIM ABOUT YOU.

Her phone chirps with his response. NO, THAD DID.

DOES IT MATTER? She's quick to ask.

NO. He takes a while. She wonders if he's brushing his teeth. YES.

I DON'T NOW.

She yawns, she's still tired. CAN WE TALK ABOUT THIS LATER?

SURE. SWEET DREAMS, her friend responds.

* * *

_A/N: I don't quite know where this came from. Pi-on-a-skateboard is responsible for the diabetic Blaine thing… a discussion which culminated in an excited "He has a Juice box!" message last episode. I'm not entirely sure how this will play out in the context of things… or how it works in what I've built. Blaine was diagnosed a lot later than Sebastian, which may be why he's still on shots._

_Second, in regard to Wes and Crohn's, I've tried to do research and get my details as accurate as possible, but this isn't one of my diseases. Please let me know how I'm doing and how I can make it better?_

_Finally, thank you to all of you for bearing with me, and that you to the people who reviewed. I'm not sure if this is what you asked for Martina, but here it is?_


	10. Chapter 10

As much as everyone hated to admit it, the summer was coming to an end. Admittedly, like Christmas, the end of summer seemed to come earlier each year. Target put up their "BACK TO SCHOOL!" display toward the end of July. Most summer interns at the Attorney General's office were on eight, ten, or twelve-week stints, and the first set was about to leave. That meant it was time for the end of summer awards dinner and dance. He wasn't going to admit it, but he was excited for the dinner. His father had been describing it since he'd returned from Paris more than two years ago.

The dinner was semi formal, held at a large hotel in the city. There was quite a lot of food, some alcohol, and more chances for the group of future lawyers to network. It was also a way to show off what you'd accomplished _outside _the office during the summer. Everyone, even if they were that chronically single and agoraphobic. That's why he was determined to get a date.

His father had pulled him aside sometime in mid July and reminded his son he would need a date. John Smythe explained that the office had a "Don't ask, Don't tell" policy, and they were in Ohio. Translation: you can be gay, but don't be gay at the party. Their father-son relationship was the better than it had been in years, and he wasn't sure he was willing to risk losing that. So, he looked for a female friend to ask.

The last week in July, he joined Quinn and the other Warblers shopping for school linins. David asked Blaine to keep an eye on Wes; Wes was determined to buy yet smaller pants to hide his wasting without Blaine, or David finding out. Kurt was bored with his job at the Lima Bean, and couldn't resist shopping. Trent needed an excuse to escape Scotty. And, he, Thad, Nick and Quinn all needed new sheets. So, the teen contingent descended upon a mall on the outskirts of Columbus.

As he and Quinn browsed through GAP's selection of men's pants, he broached the subject of the party. "How long are you contracted to work for Liz?"

"Two more weeks," Quinn pouted a little. "Although I don't know if I'll get to go back to Lima or if I'm stuck here." She held up a pair of khaki shorts for him to see, and stifled a laugh. They each could have fit into one of the wide legs. "When are you done?"

He countered by offering her a miniscule pair of baby shoes, designed for a newborn. "He has me working until mid August, just before school starts. 'Cause I started late, after I visited my mom." It's the most he's said to anyone, Nick aside, about his absence in the early summer.

He dances the shoes across a display of jeans, then compares them against the print-outs from Trent. "It's just … the end of summer dinner is coming up."

He reads the price. They're twice what his friend budgeted for jeans, and despite eschewing the reputation that gay men know clothes, he knows they will make Trent's ass look fabulous. He checks his account balance on his phone, and determines that he can make the jeans happen for Trent without stretching himself at all.

Quinn ignores the blatant act of kindness, and starts checking the racks for something in Wes' size. "… And?"

"And, I was just wondering if you'd go with me?" The words tumble out of his mouth.

She has to suppress a laugh. "You're gay," she reminds him as she picks up a pair of chinos of the correct inseam for length. The problem is that the smallest waist size she can find is still two numbers higher than the one he requested.

"I'm not asking you to marry me," he insists, picking up a pair of jeans for Trent, and heading over to help her scour the racks of pants. "I'm just asking you if you'd come with me to the end of summer dinner. As a friend"

She frowns. "What if I wanted to go with someone who as actually interested in me?" She holds up a pair of khakis. "I don't think they make pants as long as Wes wants with a small enough waist. Are we better off getting him the ones that are two inches too short or the ones that are two inches too big around?"

He snorts. "Cropped pants don't work on anyone."

"I think Blaine pulls it off well."

He considers. "Blaine's like a puppy. He can get away with things no one else could."

She glances out the window, where Blaine and Trent are bouncing around together. Kurt and Wes look in the store wistfully. "Do you know why they're all so scared of this place?" She asks.

He shakes his head. "It's a Warbler legend no one will tell me. I don't even know when it happened."

"My junior year," she says, handing him a shirt off Trent's list. "When Kurt was at Dalton. But, that's all I know."

As they're paying for their purchases, Quinn leans over to him. "Do you think Wes would go with me?"

He shrugs. "Probably. He's straight, male and a gentleman." He hands across his AmEx and pockets the cash Trent gave him. "Just don't expect him to eat anything."

She frowns, prettily biting her lip. He collects the bag of clothing, and they rejoin the group.

His stamina was faltering after an hour and a half in Sheets'n'Things. Wes, too, is showing subtle signs of tiredness. The Asian boy is limping, instead of Quinn. Blaine's face has paled, and he is stuttering.

"Kurt, I'm going to go…" The normally articulate ex-Warbler motions toward the food court.

Wes nods in the hobbit's direction. "I'm going to make sure he's okay."

Kurt grabs Quinn's arm. "Sephora?" He prompts.

She agrees, readily, and Trent trails afterward the other two. They start talking. It's something about manscraping and birthdays.

Thad dragged Nick in the direction of a video game store to look at the new Super Mario brothers.

He doesn't want to go with them. He can play decently well, but honesty, he prefers reading or running to gaming. So, he follows Blaine and Wes toward their table.

Blaine is sweeping an all too familiar black case back into his bag as he sucks his right ring finger. His dark hair is in stark relief against his unnaturally pale skin. Wes produces a juice box, and hands it to the younger boy. Their movements are practiced and careful, a perfectly practiced tandem. He's jealous. No one, not his father, not Nick, not anyone, knows him or his patterns well enough to do that.

He sees a Rent-A-Cop giving Blaine a dirty look. They're not supposed to sit at the tables in the food court and eat outside food. Never mind that it's not so much food as medicine. So, he goes and gets himself a place of fries and a coke. Because he can.

When he settles at the table, he notices two pairs of brown eyes studying his plate hungrily. "Tired of shopping?" He asks, trying to be casual.

Wes shrugs. The truth is that he's beyond tired. He's been dragging for days. Going to bed early and getting up late. Napping when Quinn is at work and Blaine is occupied. Stealing catnaps during his feedings. David's told him he has to do them when he's awake, and upright. As much as Wes hates to admit it, an hour of walking around the mall is almost more energy than he has. He'll have to borrow against tomorrow if he wants to keep going.

"Y-yes." Blaine blushes at his stutter. He hates the betrayal. He likes fries, though. He tries to be covert, reaching across the table to steal a few. A hand playfully slaps his.

"Seriously?" The tall boy with green eyes raises a brow. "That's how you're going to play it?"

Blaine shrugs. "I'm low." His voice is muffled around the warm potato goodness.

He glares across the table. "Isn't your twink boyfriend going to get angry?"

Wes shakes his head. "What Kurt doesn't know won't hurt him, but you're right to guard your fries." Hazel eyes pout. "Don't give me the puppy eyes, Blaine," the older boy directs. "And don't try to tell me that you _didn't _do it, 'cause I was there."

"A little context?" He asks, looping a protective arm around his junk food.

Blaine reaches over the top, earning himself a bitch look. "It w-wasn't my fault!" He protests. His normally golden skin is still dangerously pale. "Well, n-not entirely."

He looks longingly at his coke, and then slides it across the table toward the other boy. "Do you need this?"

Wes just stares at the other boy. "You're joking, right?"

He shakes his head. "No. Being low sucks."

"Fifteen, fifteen," Wes argues. "Fifteen grams, then wait fifteen minutes."

He snorts. "That shit doesn't work." His voice is venomous. He speaks from experience.

Even in elementary school, it would take longer than the prescribed time, and more than the prescribed amount to get him functional again. He'd quickly graduated from the fifteen-fifteen mantra to twenty-twenty, and then forty-twenty.

His period of experimentation with low blood sugar had come early. He'd been ten or eleven when he'd started, first skipping meals and then later delivering insulin through the PRIME function on his pump. Something that his mother and doctors couldn't track through conventional means. It had been an early substitute for alcohol, a way to give up control and feel silly. Now, it just felt like hell.

"You wake up in the dark for no reason. It's like being pulled into another nightmare. You're hot, and cold and sweating. And confused. So fucking confused." His voice rises, and he's angry.

Wes doesn't rise to the bait.

"L-l-lowest you've ever been?" Blaine stutters, accepting a sip.

He's played this game before with Leesha and Corey. But, he has to think about it for a moment. "Twenty five, maybe?"

Blaine pushes the cup back to him, and looks at Wes.

"You were 15 when you passed out." The older boy says. "It was a shit show. He'd been in an ACS for a while, and"

"ACS?" The acronym was unfamiliar.

"Altered conscious state," Blaine supplies. He's spent too much time around wannabe doctors to not have picked up some of the terms. "And you don't have to tell him this story…"

"Yes, I do, B. You brought it up."

Blaine scowls.

"So, like I said, he'd been in an ACS for a while," Wes continues. "And I was off taking care of something."

"Something being calling his girlfriend." Blaine interjects.

"I was getting sick!" Wes cries.

"No one believes that excuse." Blaine sticks his tongue out. "No one spends five hours a day in the bathroom unless they're calling a boy. … Or a girl. … A person." He seems flustered. "Someone hot!" Blaine says, quickly and loudly.

They're getting stares from the other patrons. Wes has the decency to turn pink. Blaine's color is improving, but he's still low enough to lack some level of judgment. Or at least, volume control.

"So, I come back to rehearsal from my mission of a personal nature," Wes continues.

_Girlfriend_, Blaine mouths.

He stifles a laugh.

Wes reaches for his keys and bangs a miniature gavel on the table. "… To find Blaine Warbler leading the entire Warblers in vocal exercises. Naked."

"We were wearing underwear!" Blaine counters.

Wes frowns. "On your heads."

"And shoes!"

"Accessories for your feet."

"Socks."

"Admittedly not on your feet, but, still. I was scarred for life!"

He chokes back a laugh. It's the first time he's laughed around either of these guys. He's comfortable with most of the other Warblers. He's comfortable with Quinn and Leesha and Corey (even if the younger boy annoys the crap out of him sometimes).

"When I was twelve, my mom sent me to camp," he says quietly. He's never told anyone this story before. "Mostly they made fun of me because I had an American accent. But, they let me come along when we did a panty raid. We had to steal the bras and panties of the girls we liked the best. Samuel stole the junior councilor's push up bra, but I stole Enjolras' tighty whities. No one else ever knew…"

Blaine giggles. "He was hot, wasn't he?"

Wes rolls his eyes. "B, it was a French guy named Enjolras. The only way he could have been hotter was if he was named Romeo."

He shakes his head. "Mercutio. Mercutio was the hot one. Romeo kind of sucked."

"Mercutio," Wes corrects himself. "But, I'm straighter than the closest distance between two points in a Cartesian plane and I know that a French guy named Enjolras was hot."

"My first crush on a boy," He admits into his fries. "Even though I didn't realize it for a long time. It didn't help that he saved my life."

Wes cocks an eyebrow.

Blaine steals a fry. Then, another. He twirls the second, holding it between his index and middle finger. "Do tell," he prompts in a falsetto.

By this time, most of the other patrons in the half empty food court have moved away from the boys. Perhaps it's the Warbler pin on Wes' bag or Blaine's perfect coiffure, but the mall guards hover, prepared to stop any sudden bursts of song or destruction of public property by standing on it.

He finds himself blushing. He never blushes. "I was twelve. And stupid," he hedges. "And, I'd never been on a horse before. It just started… going!"

Wes and Blaine laugh. They both started riding at early ages. Wes's father had hoped his son would be a polo player. He'd been somewhat disappointed when Wes had decided he preferred arranging music. Still, acapella and piano were respectable. Better than electric guitar.

He ignores them and continues. "It was this big, burly thing, and I was clinging to it for dear life. So, it decided to scrape me off by running me into a branch. Dumb animal!"

"Smart animal," Blaine stage whispers to Wes.

"_Ostie!_ Can I tell a fucking story without interruptions?"

The former Warblers look appropriately chastised.

"So, the fucking horse tried to scrape me off. And, of course, it succeeded. So, there I was, screaming my head off because it hurt, and my chest hurt and he came and sat with me until the nurse showed up. I ended up breaking my collarbone. Had to go home…"

They sit in silence for a minute as each boy recalls their own first crush.

Then, Blaine steals yet another fry.

He gives up on protecting them, and shoves them across the table at the other boy. "Do you want my coke, too?" He offers the cup as well.

Blaine shakes his head. "I'll spike," he says. "High feels like shit."

The other diabetic snorts again, the sound continental. "Bull shit. Being high is the easy stuff."

"I get a headache around 260," Blaine explains. "Blurry vision. I can barely function."

He feels a bit like bragging. "I don't even feel it until 400." He thinks for a moment. "Highest you've ever been?"

Blaine considers, and steals a fry. "Six hundred, maybe? I was kind of out of it."

Wes nods vigorously. "We _carried _you down the stairs. Thad wanted to roll you in bubble wrap, but Jeff convinced him not to. You were so sick that _Jeff_ was the voice of reason."

"I'm sure he resembles that comment," comes the current captain's acerbic reply.

"The only reason Thad listened was because he was sure that you were going to throw up on him, again," Wes continues.

The amber-eyed boy frowns. "You try keeping anything down when you have swine flu and ketones."

"I didn't think you remembered that," Wes said, quietly. "You were kind of out of it."

It's his turn to wince.

Blaine takes a fry, and chews thoughtfully for a moment. "You know these aren't as good cold."

Wes blanches, and mutters, "They go bad a minute and a half after they leave the fryer."

Both of the boys turn to him. "How do you know that?"

"Too much time with David," Wes counters. He glares pointedly at Seb. "Your turn."

The tall boy smiles proudly. "Thirteen hundred, I think." He takes a long, pointed swig of his coke. "I don't really remember anything, either. It was when I was diagnosed."

"How old were you?"

"Eight," He breathes. "Just a kid… You?"

Blaine shrugs. "It was three years ago… my second freshman year."

He quirks his eyebrow, quizzically. West reaches out a gentle hand.

Blaine shrugs. "Bare bones, someone at my first high school had a problem with me taking a boy to the Sadie Hawkins dance. The injuries were … extensive. And, by the time I recovered, I'd missed most of the year anyway. So, after physical therapy… and the car … and camp, my dad shipped me off to Dalton."

It wasn't a complete sketch, but he didn't push the details. It was obvious that Blaine was struggling to give even this much.

"… At first, I thought that school was just really hard."

"At first, we thought you were just a hunchback hermit who stayed up all night playing Katy Perry." Wes is deadpan. "And then, you had to go engage Thad in that pasta eating contest."

"It wasn't my fault!" Blaine is emphatic. "And, you know I can't resist David's carbonara."

Wes just rolls his eyes.

"Did you know it looks the same the second time around, Wessy?" Hyper Blaine is back.

He offers his coke again.

Wes gags, and mutters something about not eating eggs anymore, but he continues the story. "B won, of course. Thad couldn't keep up. It was like he hadn't eaten in weeks. And, he was so skinny. We were worried."

"Bulimia?"

"Dalton has more secrets than Hogwarts and the Tardis put together." Wes is solemn. "And I won't give them up. But, it would be … unusual … for someone to have weird eating habits."

He nods. Thad's roommate Roberto only eats blue M&Ms. And, Roberto is on the normal side for a Dalton student.

"Jeff found me," Blaine says quietly. "And he helped carry me out. He was there all the way through. I think… I think I would have died without him… without all of you."

Wes gets to his feet, slowly. His knees ache. It doesn't matter, though. He goes and puts his arms around Blaine. The younger boy squeezes him back.

A few days after the shopping trip, he gets two texts that surprise him.

First, there's Thad's message: **HEY SEB DO U THINK LEESH LIKES ME.**

Despite the fact that Thad scored a composite of 2200 on the SATs, he still texts like a drunken toddler. It annoys him no end, but he puts up with Thad because, well, he's Thad. And there is no way to change the boy.

**I HAVE NO IDEA**. A succinct response is usually best with Thad. Longer ones encourage conversation. Although, he has a sneaking suspicion he knows what this means. He cannot, he will not go to that dinner alone.

Twenty minutes later, he gets a text for Leesha. **SEBASTIAN! I NEED A FAVOR!**

He's not sure what he's gotten himself into, so he responds tentatively. **DEPENDS. WHAT DO YOU NEED?**

His phone pings with her next message. **A SASSY GAY FRIEND TO TAKE ME SHOPPING.  
AND ASK ME WHAT, WHAT, WHAT AM I DOING.**

He is suspicious. **... WHY?**

… **BECAUSE THAD ASKED ME TO GO TO THE DINNER WITH HIM?! ...**

He images that she's spitting out the words, typing them in a deluge. If she were speaking, her voice would go up half an octave on the last word.

He decides to go with humor. **I'M NOT SURE I'M THAT KIND OF SASSY GAY FRIEND.**

**POOP**. He can almost see her pouting on the other end of the phone. **WELL, CAN YOU BECOME ONE FOR A DAY, FOR ME?**

**WHY?** He's somewhat intrigued, now.

**BECAUSE I AM A TOTAL AND UTTER FAILURE AT DRESSING MYSELF**. The reply is snappy and amusingly self deprecating. There is a reason he is friends with Leesha. **I AM THE SOLE REASON WE HAD TO WEAR UNIFORMS AT CRAWFORD.  
… I MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE ALSO FAILED THE CLASS WHERE THEY TAUGHT WALKING IN HEELS.**

He cannot do this alone. He texts Quinn. **LEESHA NEEDS A FAVOR. I NEED HELP**.

Quinn is clearly bored with filing, because she responds quickly. **WHAT?**

**SHOPPING AND HEELS.**

He knows that Quinn is smiling on the other end when she sends the next message. **SHE NEEDS KURT**.

Another comes into his phone in quick sucession. **I'LL ASK HIM FOR YOU, THOUGH. HE'S STILL A LITTLE MAD ABOUT THE SLUSHIE THING.**

He wants to bang his head against the table of his booth. **I SAID I WAS SORRY! **

Somehow, though, he agrees to go shopping with Leesha, Quinn and Kurt. It proves to be an interesting trip. He knows next to nothing about women's fashion, as Kurt is more than happy to demonstrate.

It's a Saturday afternoon when they pile into Kurt's Navigator. Kurt insisted on driving because he didn't want to be trapped in Columbus and dependent on a "Criminally Insane Meerkat."

He pretends like he hasn't heard the name before. It stings, a little. They used to call him "Timon" in elementary school.

They drive in an unfamiliar direction. He's surprised that Kurt has good taste in music. He wasn't sure what to expect. But, the mellow jazz is nice.

Leesha looks nervous as they enter the store. "I don't think I've ever actually gone shopping without my mom," she admits quietly. The comment is meant for him.

He smiles at her bravely. "I still make my dad buy my boxers," he admits in her ear.

As Kurt moves through the boutique, carefully collecting dresses. Some he hands to Quinn, who trails confidently. The rest, he drapes over his arm. He waves away the sale woman's offer of help, and goes full diva. It's not hard to imagine him in New York as the editor of a fashion magazine.

Arms loaded with clothes, he beckons to Leesha. She skuffs her canvas sneakers against the carpet, and follows nervously.

"How about this one?" Leesha emerges from the cubicle in a simple black dress with a sweetheart neck and A-line skirt. She has a cute little figure.

Kurt studies the girl. "I like it," he says, finally. "But, it needs something."

"A little bit of color." It's strange to find himself agreeing with Kurt Hummel. He wonders over to a rack of silk scarves, and finds a scarlet square edged in gray.

Quinn smiles. Kurt picked quickly for her; they know each other well after working with Tina on Glee costumes. He was the one who suggested she try the pink feather eyelashes Gaga week.

Leesha is the only person in the group who doesn't look happy. She's frowning about something.

He crosses back, and tries to figure out what to do with the scarf. He folds it up, and ties it like a bracelet around her wrist.

She leans in, ostensibly studying the accessory, and whispers in his ear. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with my pump?"

"What are you doing with it now?" He asks in an undertone.

"I took it off!" She says.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I got one I could take off for a reason!" She explains emphatically. "And, it's a pain the in ass to run tubing everywhere when you're trying on clothes."

"So just put it in your pocket." He advises. If he doesn't want it on his belt, he used to put his pump in his pocket most of the time. Except when he was performing with the Warblers or practicing or going to fight club. Because honestly, small expensive computers, flips, and wooden floors did not mix well.

"What pockets?" She laughed.

He turned to Kurt. "Why aren't there pockets?"

Kurt and Quinn laughed too.

"You didn't say you wanted pockets," Kurt complains once he gets his laughter under control.

"Why aren't there pockets?" His voice rises. He doesn't understand. "This is some sort of sexist conspiracy!'

Kurt frowns. "Because a lady carries a purse. Or gives it to her date."

"You can't give this to your date!" Sebastian is still worried. "Do you want to be tied at the hip that _Thad _all night?"

"I like Thad!" Leesha retorts hotly.

"Obviously." Kurt's comment is dry. "Although I'm not sure how anyone can resist a guy with a vocal crush on my boyfriend, a note book with the pros and cons for each decision for a game of Fuck, Marry, Kill, and extensive knowledge of all the public indecency laws in the states of Ohio, New York, Florida and California."

Leesha is wise enough to let the comment pass.

"What did you do for prom?" Quinn quiries, vaguely aware of the problem.

"I didn't go." Leesha mutters, looking at her bare feet and tugging at the hem of the skirt. "It was just after surgery, and… I … I didn't want to go." A hand unconsciously goes to the scar on her throat.

He knows it's painful. Leesha's scar has faded to a pale pink, hardly noticeable, but she's self-conscious. She once admitted that she doubts anyone will love a girl with scars like hers. He puts a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Graduation?" The girls at Crawford wear white dresses for graduation.

"I cut off my circulation with a garter." She looks uncertain.

"The things we do for fashion." Kurt smiles, the matter settled in his mind. "Now, What color shoes have you got?"

"Umm… I just bought a pair of red and white sneakers?" Leesha points back into the dressing room. "And some nice black boots."

Kurt rests his head in his hand in a Captain Picard impression. "Dear Gaga. This is harder than I thought." He lifts his head to prevent he oil from his hands from entering his pores. "You need heels, sweetheart."

He will never admit it, not to Quinn of Leesha or Nick or Jeff or Thad or _anyone_, but he's thankful that Kurt came along.

_A/N: So, this was supposed to be a continued chapter, but I've decided to split up the arc into two sub-arcs. So, today involved a lot of shopping. Blame . and Different Child for all manner of things here. Like the swearing, the diabetes-down between Seb and Blaine, and the fact that this got split. (They've both been stoking my muse…). ? By the way, one of my favorite things about writing is having an excuse to look up French swears instead of doing it because. _

_A note for your edification: The SATs are a university-qualifying exam scored out of 2400 points. _

_Special thanks to the people on Tumblr who asked my question (and laughed at me) when I asked what boys did with their pumps when they dressed up. … Apparently this isn't a normal concern for guys. _

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed, or started following, especially youdon'tknowme06 and JessOvergon.  
To the anonymous reviewer who was looking for suggestions on diabetes resources… I'd suggest reading message boards for diabetics and parents of diabetics. They'll probably cover things like treatment and daily life best (I don't actually use any, but they're really helpful when I'm researching other diseases). The tags on Tumblr "diabetic" and "actuallydiabetic" tend to be mostly posts by people who have diabetes. It's sort of a mixed bag… everything from bitching to supplies to questions to begging for a diabetic boyfriend. I also think (although I'm not entirely sure) that some of the pump companies (Medtronic, Animas, Omni Pod, AcuCheck and maybe Cosmo if it's still around) have pump tutorials where you can try a computer simulation. You're also welcome to PM me… I'm only representative of myself, but I'm happy to try. It sounds like a really cool story, though!_

_So… next chapter is the dinner. And goodbyes?_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N 1: There's some ablest language in this chapter that some people may find offensive._

The second to last time they see each other before the end of summer, it's at the dinner. Neither realized that it would be the second to last opportunity, but things were moving swiftly. The trial over her accident had ended; it was time for her to return to Lima. And, the collaboration between John Smythe and Liz Cohen was quieting. Sebastian would be confined to the Columbus metro area for the rest of the summer.

If they knew, or they let themselves think about it, they might be sad. Things were changing, unable to fight the inexorable march of time. Their friendship, fought for and hard won, was inevitably going to change. There is no way to maintain what they have, with her departure to New Haven in late August. She knows friendship won't simply be snuffed out: it's too hardy, able to withstand the storms of both their tempers. It's strong and flexible: able to adapt. But, that doesn't mean that the change won't come with loss.

She pushes aside the metaphysical and the philosophical and focuses on the present. There are much more important things to think about. Shoes, for instance.

She can do this. It's not hard, not really. She's done it a million times before. She's done so much more than this. Hell, she danced nine months pregnant in shoes higher than these. But, she's shaking as she takes a deep breath and slides her stocking-clad foot into the elegant t-strap with the low heel. This is the first time since the accident she's walking without the benefits of braces, muscle relaxants, steroids, or horse tranquilizers.

"Quinn, mija, where's you're curling iron?" The shout comes from the bathroom where her friend, a second member of the unholy trinity, is getting ready.

"At my mom's," she calls back. "I haven't needed it. There's a flat iron, if you want it. Second drawer to the right."

A string of muffled curses come from the door of the private bathroom. It doesn't matter the pair has seen magic worked with much less (a card of bobby pins and a 5 cent comb in one case), Santana is annoyed at having to do her curls the hard way.

She takes a deep breath, and returns to the task at hand. She carefully buckles the shoe, then slips her foot into the other and fastens it as well. Slowly, she gets to her feet, and takes a tentative step.

It's just like riding a bicycle. They say you never forget how to do it. They say that once you learn, once you graduate from training wheels and can sail down the street without your father running along behind you holding the seat and encouraging you, you'll always be able to do it. Her first real bike had been a pale sunshine yellow, with white and yellow streamers that blew in the wind. It had been Avery's bike first, long ago abandoned by the budding pubescent teen: her sister too fast becoming a woman. The piece about always remembering was a lie, though. The first time she sat down at her _second _first bike, this one an ugly, serviceable blue tricycle sized for an adult, she couldn't remember how to ride. She couldn't make her legs move up and down, couldn't balance herself (obviously, that's why they'd given her the trike instead of a proper bike). Her body forgot how to ride. Just like it seems to have forgotten how to walk in heels.

Her first few steps are slow. She feels her ankle begin to give, but she straightens herself the way she's practiced in physical therapy. She smooths the skirt of her white eyelet dress, and carefully walks into the bathroom to apply a final coat of lipstick.

Santana studies her from the mirror. The blonde is better than at senior prom. She's being honest this time, the slight limp the result of hard won physical therapy and not just adrenaline and pain killers. She looks like her old self, the girl Santana remembers as the president of the celibacy club and the head cheerio. But, she's not the same girl, even as she applies the same rose lipstick.

Santana wraps an arm around her friend's waist, and smiles at the blonde in the mirror.

She squeezes back. "Thanks for doing this, San."

"And miss a chance to get dressed up and meet your awful co-workers?" The ravenette's tone is light, although there is an edge to it. "I can't believe I get to meet Broadway's older sister."

She laughs and shakes her head, letting her loose hair fall around her shoulders. "I'm looking forward to that," she admits.

The Latina twists her cascading hair into a final curl, and gives her companion a smile so saccharine, it can only be evil. It's a smile Santana wore around the time Finn came down with mono. It almost makes her wonder if the other girl had anything to do with the disease…

There's a knock at the door.

"Quinn?" Wes' voice sounds different.

She walks slowly, still unsteady in the higher shoes. Santana matches her pace without commenting.

She opens the door to find Wes and Bastian standing outside. They're dressed in dark suits, tailored to give them broad shoulders and narrow waists. Even though it's the same basic outfit as the Dalton uniform, there's a night and day difference in their attire. She supposes that's the point of eveningwear.

Wes' smile is nervous and inviting. She kisses him gently on the cheek.

Sebastian just looks surprised, and maybe just a bit intimidated, when he sees Santana. He'll never admit that he's scared of the Latina, but she knows him well enough to have suspicions. For her part, San leers at the Warbler with her most intimidating, yet still appealing look. Suddenly, the evening has gotten more interesting. She kisses Wes again. Her boy is a genius.

"You look … lovely, Satana." Sebastian is at least trying to be charming and failing miserably as the nickname accidently slips out. His nerves just sound like his usual snark.

"You clean up well, too, Sebastard." Apparently the Latina isn't on her best behavior, either.

The evening will be interesting. Hopefully the two can keep their tempers under control enough to only blow up at threats outside the group.

She ducks back inside her room for her wrap and purse. Santana wears a short black leather jacket.

Wes offers his arm, and escorts her out to the foyer. The room is two stories of white marble, with a sweeping staircase. Much as she is loathe to call anything a foyer, this space warrants the title. It's just ostentatious enough that she imagines Blaine's parents debated about it before they bought the house. She imagines that Mrs. Anderson (whose tastes are somewhat more modern than her husband) hated the space, but that Blaine's father won the argument. He probably whipped out the big brown eyes his son is so efficient at using, and convinced his wife.

She expects they're going to make a clean get-away, taking Sebastian's car and leaving. Wes's is nice enough, for a minivan. But, if she's honest, it sort of smells like hamburgers since someone (Blaine and David) borrowed it in their quest to identify the best French fries in the city of Columbus. (For the record, Blaine attributes this title to the herbed vampire fries at Westie's Drive-In, while David happens to like the chips and his favorite Irish Pub. Wes and Quinn abstained from the activity for the sake of their stomachs and waistlines). Instead, she finds Thad, Leesha, Blaine and Kurt waiting in the entry. Kurt is complementing Leesha on her dress and the simple barrette in her hair. The girl is glowing. Blaine has Thad in a corner, and is talking to him quietly. She wonders what advice is being passed along.

Wes clears his throat, and Kurt and Blaine turn from their respective charges.

"Pictures!" The countertenor's voice is piercing as he produces an almost professional grade camera. "I borrowed it from Tina." As if that explains everything. And, actually, knowing Tina, it sort of does.

He begins the careful process of arranging them artistically around the house and garden and snapping pictures. There's a shot of Quinn and Wes in the rose garden. Sebastian plays the piano while Santana trails her fingers over his neck and sings. Thad and Leesha stick their tongues out at each other in a candid shot taken while they were arguing houses in Pottermore_._

Then, he poses them in unusual groups. There's a shot of the three who worked at the office. He pushes the camera off on Santana so he can get a picture of all the Dalton boys, then all the private school survivors. Quinn and Sebastian end up in the garden, posed classically as friends. And, she and Santana grin together with their arms around each other. She is going to kill Kurt if he doesn't post the pictures on Dropbox or Facebook.

Blaine clears his throat, and glances pointedly at his watch. Even with Sebastian's driving, they'll be late if they don't leave now. Wes takes Quinn's elbow gently as he escorts her out to Sebastian's clean car. Santana slides in the front, next to her date, while Quinn and Wes cuddle in the back. She uses the excuse to slip her feet out of her heels, and stretch her toes.

The valets are prompt to take Sebastian and Thad's cars. She notices that the boys have the malice of forethought to slip the uniformed workers money. Maybe tipping was part of Blaine's lecture to Thad. Then again, knowing what she does about Thad, it could have been a reminder not to ask people what shape their patronuses might take, or comment too loudly on the implications of Citizen's United unless someone brings it up first. She will resist the urge.

They walk through the hotel, up the stairs and to the ballroom. Sebastian and Wes quietly look at each other and switch as they approach the stairs. Wes will never admit it, but a flight of stairs take mores energy than it should. Which is a lot, considering how little energy Wes has to spare. So, Bastian helps her up the stairs without calling obvious attention to the fact that she almost slips a few times, and Santana makes what she can only assume to snarky comments in Wes's ear.

They make their entrance midway through the cocktail hour. Leesha and Thad peel off to find canapés and argue about children's literature. She can feel the force of Elizabeth Clarise Worthington's gaze on her, over Howell's shoulder. She's not sure what she's done to earn the older girl's ire, but she can feel the full force of it, now. She is not used to being on the receiving end of soft power wars with someone she cannot burry in dirt.

Santana leans in. "Who's the bitch eye-fucking the meerkat?"

Wes stifles a laugh, and Sebastian pretends not to hear.

"Worthington." She has learned the art of talking under her breath to Santana. It was an excellent way to keep up with Cheerios gossip during Spanish. "She'll be a senior at Columbia. Says she's a shoe-in for Law at Harvard. I'm not sure how spending her summer playing messenger pigeon makes her a better candidate, though."

Santana's evil smile returns. "Which one is chicken-fetus killer's sister?"

Quinn nods to the too-skinny girl in a green cocktail dress. St James is pretty, or she would be, if she wasn't for her fragile hair, ashy skin and almost skeletal body.

Sebastian frowns quietly at the pair. "Chicken fetus?"

"Rachel is a vegan." Santana might be vicious to people in the group, but she's protective of her own. "And Jesse and Vocal Adrenaline decided it would be fun to throw eggs at her."

"Puck and Finn slit their tires, though, I think." She supplies quickly, as if that made the act of throwing eggs okay.

"Jesse?" Sebastian is still lost. Wes, on the other hand, lost three years of Show Choir sectionals to Vocal Adrenaline.

"Jesse St James," She supplies. "Isabella's younger brother, the family favorite, and a Show Choir prodigy."

"He was like the second coming of Elvis, Freddie Mercury and Blaine Anderson all rolled into one." If she didn't know Wes better, she'd think he was being sarcastic. But, this is Wes. He's too honest and good for that.

Sebastian snorts into his hand, just in time for his father to slide in beside him.

"Good evening, Sebastian." The greeting feels strangely cold and formal. "How are you?"

The few times she's seen Bastian and his father together, the two have been distant but not uncaring. They're not a pair who touches, but there is a difference between not touching and not caring at all.

"Fine." Sebastian's smile suddenly feels a bit forced. "Have you met Santana? She just graduated from McKinley with Quinn."

Santana and Sebastian's father shake hands, politely. Mr. Smythe says something complementary about New Direction's victory at Nationals. Sebastian's eyes bug out.

She takes the opportunity to loop her elbow through Wes' arm. "Let's go find something to drink and avoid the drama."

He leads her away as Santana starts to say something about welding masks. Wes gives her a significant glance.

"Sue Sylvester." The name is really all the explanation anyone needs. Wes nods, understandingly.

The cocktail waiters disappear, and they move into the dining room from the large reception area. She and Wes find their names at a table with enough clearance that she could have been comfortable in her wheelchair. There is an exit nearby, which she suspected lead to the men's room. It seems that someone has put thought into the seating arrangements.

Wes, ever the gentleman, pulls out her chair so she can sit. She appreciates the gesture. Finn, Sam, Puck, even Joe: none of the boys at McKinley would have ever been so considerate. Wes slides the peach linen napkin into his lap. Finn rarely remembered that napkins exist and he shouldn't wipe his hands on his pants. It was nice to go out with someone with manners.

The others join them, leaving two empty seats at the table. She doesn't peak at the place cards; she doesn't want to know who else will be at the table. Leesha and Thad are arguing about James Bond movies.

"I'd be Q's assistant." A very pink Leesha explains into her water glass.

"I think you're pretty enough for a Bond girl." Thad's remark is sincere, but the glare he receives suggests he's put his foot in it.

"Sebastian would be a Bond girl," she offers, trying to keep the peace.

"Sebastian would be a Bond villain." Warbler captain wears an evil grin on his face. "Operating out of his secret lair in Ohio because he was snubbed by a beautiful boy during his adolescence."

"And he'd blind Bond with a rock salt slushie?" Santana's words are cold.

Sebastian laughs, artificially. "No, I'd send my tortured, conflicted boys and girls after old Jimmy. A man that beautiful can't be entirely straight."

Thad shakes his head. "He's old school, and if he is gay, he's in the closet. Do right by the crown and all. Although, as I think we learned in Quantum of Solace the reason he can be so wild."

Thad's about to continue onto a tirade, which she has no double will discuss the results of whipping on male virility, but Wes intervenes. "He did it in the service of the British crown and flag."

Thad shuts up, suddenly, turning pink.

The look of relief is evident on the faces of Leesha and Sebastian when Wes asks Santana if she's excited to start college. Thad is known for his wild selection of topics and lack of filters. College is usually a reasonably safe topic, even with Thad around.

Her nerves are heightened when the last member of their table sits down. She appreciates the effort to put the four high school interns at ease by seating them together. She just didn't expect the fourth member of their group to be…

"Karofsky?" Santana sounds a bit incredulous as she greets their old classmate.

He looks the same as always, tall and broad. His hair has been cut shorter, but he remains clean-shaven. The one strange thing is seeing Karofsky in a suit. The last time she saw him dressed that way was at Prom, when he got so angry. He looks uncomfortable.

Sebastian gives him a wide smile. "Come join us, Cub."

"Don't call me that." Karofsky's voice has a smooth, hard edge. "Unless you want to talk about your beard?"

Sebastian and Santana share a long suffering long, and then with almost choreographed precision stroke their chins.

Dave sits, his suit settling around him.

"Where were you working this summer?" The question is politely, and yet still nosy.

Across the table, the former football player forces a smile onto his face. "Up near Toledo. I stayed with my mom."

Santana looks like she's about to comment, and then bites her lip.

Wes looks around the table. "I think I'm missing something. I'm Wes Montgomery." He offers his hand to the newcomer.

She blushes, feeling rebuked for not introducing her date.

"David Karofsky." He shakes Wes' hand.

She can see the look of realization dawning on the faces of Wes and Thad. Wes looks like he might want to punch his new dining companion, or at least saw a few choice words to him. Thad's eyes darken, too. There are levels of emotion behind them that she'd love to ask about.

She realizes that only she, Santana, and Thad have been around for the whole drama. Wes knows Kafosky as the bully who drove Kurt away from McKinley, somehow. Sebastian knows him as the boy who committed suicide because he was gay. And, Leesha doesn't know Karofsky from Adam, Eve, or Steve Jobs.

"Wes, don't," she breathes in his ear as she reaches for the butter. "There's a lot you don't know."

"Obviously," he replies tartly. He picks a roll out of the basket and starts shredding it.

Leesha takes a sip of her water. "How did you like it up there?"

Karofsky smiles at the unfamiliar, friendly face. "It was okay. Ohio."

His comment breaks some of the tension.

"Did you make it to the zoo?" Leesha forges ahead in the conversation.

She remembers that the Toledo zoo was one of the best in Ohio. The last time she'd been was a class trip in fourth grade. She'd still been plain Lucy Fabray, and no one had wanted to be her bus buddy, so she'd had to be partnered up with Ryan Wescott who talked with a lisp and always smelled like peanut butter. The popular girls, the girls she had eventually joined, whispered that she looked like a rhinoceros. She decided that she hated the zoo.

"Once or twice. I liked the penguins." Karofsky grins, unabashedly. It's surprisingly nice. She wonders why he didn't smile more in high school. "What are yours…?"

"Leesha," The girl supplies. "I like otters."

Thad wrinkles his nose. "You're such a Hermione! Except you can sort of draw." He pauses, then offers his hand as well. "Thad Harwood. I went to Dalton with well… everyone."

"I bet your favorite animal is the meerkat, Sebastard," A certain Latina comments snarkily.

"And yours is probably a praying mantis," Sebastian retorts smoothly.

She knows that Sebastian's favorite animal is a Macaque.

A microphone crackles to life, cutting off further conversation. She's thankful for the interruption.

On the dais, the Attorney General's secretary holds a microphone and a series of index cards. He plays MC for the night, announcing the winners of various awards and prizes. Most are boring, administrative things, but she appreciates a few.

Thad is called up for a small scholarship awarded by the office for college students who show particular promise as lawyers. She can see the dark glares of Worthington, Howell, and St James on the boy, as well as Leesha's beatific grin.

Thad once admitted to her during their lunches together that he'd wanted to be a lawyer since he was a little boy. He'd been raised on a steady diet of Grishman and SUV. She isn't sure what person in their right mind would let an eight-year-old watch a show like that (her mother had kept her to Hannah Montana and Saved by the Bell re-runs), but it had an impact. Later, she found out that Thad made the four-hour commute between his family's empty Columbus mansion and Lima to work with Liz Cohen. Apparently, Tina's mother has a reputation of being one of the best prosecutors in family cases in the state. Thad had jumped at the opportunity to work with legend.

She had simply accepted the job because she'd needed one that didn't require standing, walking or running and Tina was away.

Liz Cohen receives a special acknowledgement from the state for her work with children and families. The tiny, rotund woman climbs on stage, her short, frizzy hair going everywhere. Her family is standing together by their table, clapping loudly. Tina's bright smile splits her face as she claps for her mother, the sleeves of her leather jacket curling over her hands. Beside her, her father beams. He looks as uncomfortable as Karofsky in his jacket and tie. This third member of the group is a skinny man somewhere between ginger and gray. He's wearing a green tweed coat, and filming on a small camcorder.

It takes her a minute to place the man. Then, she remembers. Liz's older brother, Mark, who Tina was staying with over the summer. She promises herself that after dinner, she and Wes will go over and congratulate her boss.

The awards seem to last forever. Howell and Worthington continue glaring at Thad throughout the presentation. But, finally, they finish and dinner is served.

An army of white and black clad caters descend on the dining room in unison. They serve soy-glazed salmon with orzo and steamed vegetables. She watches Wes' face fall, slightly. He's torn between wanting to eat to be polite, and knowing the consequences if he does.

Sebastian stops the waiter with a hand on his arm, and says a few quiet words to the man. The plate of fish and pasta disappears, along with the man.

Santana wrinkles her nose. "I didn't know you were a picky eater, twink. I thought you'd try anything, as long as it had enough rock salt."

"I don't like fishy things." Sebastian looks pointed at the Latina's lap. "I prefer meat."

The waiter returns a moment later with a grilled chicken breast and rice. A few discrete movements later, and Wes has the easy to digest food, while Sebastian has the fish he wanted all along. She marvels at the simple, yet effective solution.

Dinner passes more or less uneventfully. Karofsky and Thad get into an argument about sports midway through the meal, with Thad contending that Intercollegiate Quiddich should be official recognized by the NCAA. Karofsky takes a more practical point of view, pointing out that Universities have enough trouble with club sports and Title IX without introducing another ridiculous competition. Despite the ferocity with which each boy defends his position, the banter is amiable. She's also surprised at how well Karofsky holds his own against the former Dalton debate captain. Dave is smarter than he left on at McKinley.

After dinner, there is dessert and dancing. While Leesha slips away to the bathroom and Santana and Dave Karofsky do something akin to gossiping about whom at McKinley is in the closet (if anyone could imagine Dave Karofsky gossiping), she, Thad, Wes and Sebastian go over to congratulate Liz Cohen.

Liz practically glows under their admiration. She envelops each of them in a hug, the soft, slick, cool satin of her drapy top sliding against their clavicles and cheeks. "Thank you dears," she gushes. "I can't believe it."

Then, Liz introduces them to her family. Tina, of course, most of them already know. But, there's also Mr. Chang, and Liz's other brother, Mark.

She and Tina hug each other and she complements the younger girl on her jacket. "How was New York?"

"Fantastic." Tina glows. "We went to see Godspell and Newsies, and I took a couple of classes, and I saw Rachel."

"How is she?"

"Settling in." Tina sighs. "She seems at home."

"Good." She knows that Rachel was never meant to be in Lima. She's just afraid that she _was._

Sebastian and Tina eye each other cautiously when they shake hands. Beyond the bad feelings between New Directions and Sebastian, she wonders if Sebastian's nickname for Liz's daughter has gotten out, somehow. If Liz knew, she'd probably have gone Mama-bear on his ass, though.

Thad grins, shyly. She isn't sure she's ever seen Thad shy, or less than bubbling with exuberance, but he's surprisingly reserved tonight. He congratulates his boss, and almost glows when she returns the accolade. Liz lets him know that should he want a position next year, she'll be happy to have him return.

When the trio takes their leave, Thad practically floats back to Leesha. He grabs her hand, despite her giggling protests, and drags her onto the dance floor. The pair is off in their own little world.

At some point during the night, she slips off the to lady's room. It's quiet in the long, carpeted hallway between the ballroom and the bathrooms. The lights are low, and she steps carefully. When she was younger, she used to play on the patterns of carpet. She doesn't do that anymore.

She slips through the double door to the bathroom, past the carpeted lounge area with a mirror and a fainting couch, and into the toilets. Howell and St. James are at the mirror, freshening up their appearances. She knows they see her when she enters the stall.

"Honestly, I don't know why they even do this," St. James complains. "It would be so much better if we could just do a bar crawl to celebrate the end of the summer."

"They couldn't do that with people working for them who are underage." Howell's voice is crisp and carrying. "Although I don't know why we got all the charity cases this year."

"What do you mean?" St. James demands, hungry for gossip.

She wonders how Jesse's older sister manages to live on cruel words and unkind thoughts alone.

"Well, I heard the runner from Toledo tried to commit suicide." Howell's voice again.

It's true, but she wonders how the older girl found out.

"And the boy from Lima, the one who won the award? His sister is retarded. Like, drooling can't function retarded."

"How do you know?" St. James asks the question that Quinn wants answered as well.

She images that Howell is smiling, like the cat who got the canary. "We went to school together, Arianna Harwood and I, at least for a little while. Until they realized what a mistake it was to try to mainstream her, and her parents sent her away."

She wonders if that's why Thad is so passionate about family law. That maybe he got into it because of his sister?

St. James snorts in an unladylike fashion, and smacks her lips. "I wonder if that's why he got the scholarship? Pity."

"Probably." Because it would be impossible for Thad to win it on his own merit. No high school student could _ever _be as good as a Columbia girl.

She's done peeing, but she's not sure she can face the gauntlet of the bathroom. It was different in high school, where she'd been the Queen Bee, at least for a little while. It was different when she had ammunition to throw back, ways to wound people. So, she stays where she is and pretends that she's not there.

"And then there are the two we had. Fabray and Smythe." Howell's tone is laced with loathing. "I mean, she's bad coming in half-way through the summer. Practically retarded herself, with the way she walks."

She knows that she still limps, but she's gotten _so _much better. She hasn't used her crutches since the day she was recovering from that really bad spasm. And, mostly, she hasn't even needed the AFOs anymore.

"It's like she doesn't know where her feet are!" St. James brays.

"Right?" Howell chortles. "But, at least we only had her for a few weeks. Not like Smythe."

"Oh, God, Smythe." St. James groans. "I swear, he's a drug addict or diseased."

Howell snorts. "What lead you to that impression?"

"You know he has syringes in his bag? The one he won't let out of his sight?"

The door opens. She prays to sweet baby Jesus that it's Santana, and the Latina will come to rescue her.

"Excuse me." Leesha's voice is barely audible over the sounds of Howell and St. James. It's a shy whisper, someone who doesn't want to be noticed. The quiet shyness, the façade of a victim, sets the other girls at ease. They ignore the interloper and continue trashing their co-workers.

"Oh God! He must do drugs!" Howell says, knowingly. Considering the number of times she's been witnessed taking pills from bottles with other people's names on them, it's not exactly a fair accusation. "I wonder if anyone has ever checked for track marks. Bet Daddy Smythe wouldn't be too pleased to find out."

She decides that she can emerge from the stall. Leesha is there, so she'll at least be protected. And, the other girls seem focused on trashing Sebastian. She flushes the toilet and emerges from the stall.

"And sometimes," St. James amends, "he looks spaced out during meetings."

"You space out during meetings." Howell points out. Actually, most of the interns tend to lose focus during their weekly reviews. Only Thad is avid enough about his work to actually pay attention to the test best ways to drive and conserve gas or the most efficient routes through rush out traffic in Columbus and surrounding suburbs.

"Well, when he's spaced out, he goes all pale and starts shaking." Jesse's sister is applying a thin coat of peachy gloss to her lips.

She meets Leesha's eyes in the mirror. They're wide with horror and shock. The eyes of an antelope caught alone in the bush, singled out by a pack of lionesses.

Then, Leesha does something unexpected. She slides her purse up onto the counter, and fumbles out the contents: A small silver device, larger than an old fashioned pager, a thin white pen, and a bottle of strips. Sebastian has something similar, he's used it once before, but he keeps his in a black nylon case instead of a beaded black purse. Leesha pricks her finger with quick efficiency, and draws a bead of blood that she loads onto the meter. Her hands stay unobtrusively at counter level the whole time.

Howell opens an altoids container, and offers one of the small white pills (too small to be breath mints) to St. James. They continue to discuss Sebastian's obvious drug use.

Leesha sighs quietly when the device shows a number, and shoves it back in her purse. She slips out an open plastic bag of needles, a tear in the upper right corner distorting the label, "0.3 CCs" and a small clear bottle of what must be insulin. She studies the little plastic syringe, pulls back a volume and injects it into the bottle, before carefully filling it at eye level. She flicks it a few times, and pulls back a bit more, then caps it and sets it on the counter.

"Could you move over a bit?" The words are barely a whisper, so quiet and sweet that they can't possibly be threatening.

Howell glances over at the girl for the first time, and sees the orange and white needle on the counter. "Sorry, what?"

"Just shift over a bit, please?" Leesha's had hovers by the counter, drawing focus to the things displayed there.

Howell and St. James notice what she has, and back away quickly.

With a practiced efficiency, Leesha reaches across to her left bicep and pinches the skin. She injects herself with a smooth detachment while Howell and St James watch in horror. The needle and insulin disappear back into her bag, and she washes her hands.

"What the hell?" St. James' voice is raw.

Leesha's smile is innocent. "Sorry, I though this was the bathroom where the girls went to use drugs? Since the two of you have …" she pauses to inspect the Altoid container left open on the counter, "quite a pharmacy in there. At least mine are legal."

She turns on her heel, than pauses. "Oh, Quinn, Sebastian's looking for you." And then, Leesha takes her leave.

The college girls stare at each other in amazement as she uses the opportunity to make her exit as well.

She thinks she's underestimated Leesha. The girl may not be a lioness like Howell, St James or Santana Lopez. But, she's not an antelope, either. Leesha is a shy jungle cat. A lynx, maybe, or a civet. Maybe a Honey Badger? She's as much a predator as the others. And, she's won this round.

She finds Sebastian sitting in the hall, his tie loose and his face pale. His knees are bent, and he looks shaken or stressed.

"What's wrong?" She puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Nothing." He lifts his head so his green eyes meet hers. "Leesha is taking care of it." His voice shakes a little.

She nods, and changes the subject. "So, what do you think about Santana?"

"She hasn't threatened to kill me yet," he admits. "But she says that if we don't go to iHOP after this, she might go Lima Heights on my ass."

She laughs. That sounds like Santana. "Are you getting a hotel room, tonight?"

Sebastian wrinkles his nose in disgust. "I'm not a fan of any variety of pussy, feline or female." She laughs. Even though he's struggling, his wit is still there. "Besides, I'm afraid Satana might castrate me."

"San promised me that she'd to play nice." It hadn't been an easy promise to extract, but a few threats and the promise of frozen yogurt with Brittany and sprinkles was enough. Shockingly, the Latina has an unexplainable passion for multi-colored sprinkles. Something about her _abuela_. "She left her switch blades at home."

"So she can't go Lima Heights on my ass?" The imitation is almost purpose.

There isn't a time that Santana can't go Lima Heights on _someone's _ass, regardless of the circumstances. "I wouldn't say that…"

Leesha arrives, her heels in one hand a bottle of coke in the other. "Do you know what I paid for this?" She demands. "Two-fifty! Highway robbery."

Sebastian takes the drink and opens it. "Thanks, Leesh. I owe you one."

"You do," she agrees.

They make their way back to the ballroom, and she rejoins Wes at their table. Sebastian stops to say something in the senior Warbler's ear, before going back to where Santana and Dave are dancing together. Leesha is already in Thad's arms.

"Do you want to dance?" Wes asks, holding out his hand.

She smiles, shyly. "I'm not sure if it's a good idea…"

He shrugs. "Sebastian said he and Santana will bowl over anyone who gets in our way. Ten points for an intern, Twenty five for a female lawyer, One hundred points for a state's attorney."

She giggles. "Let's wait for a slow song?" She's still nervous about her heels. She knows that she's done this before, done worse than this before, but she's still afraid. It's only in retrospect that you realize just how bad things were, and it's only in retrospect that you realize the impossibility of what you've accomplished.

The music changes, the piano tinkling and the soft strains of Frank Sinatra filling the air. The two move to the dance floor, and Wes holds her close. She isn't sure if he's there to support her, or to be supported.

Liz and her husband sway together, smiling and locked in an embrace.

Thad twirls Leesha in a manner that's almost incongruous with the music, but still works.

Santana and Sebastian rock together. They've left room for Brittany, or whoever else might be in their lives, but that's where they are. They stand like body guards.

Howell and St. James sit in chairs at the edge of the parquet, glaring at the proceedings/

"Congratulations," Wes whispers into her hair.

She glances up at him. "What for?"

"Making it through the craziness to get here." He's gentle.

"Oh?" She snuggles against him.

"No one can ever call either of our glee clubs exactly sane." He chuckles. "And, I'm pretty sure your high school experience was sort of a typical. Not to mention your summer."

She laughs lightly as well.

"I mean, you've almost tamed the famous Smythe." Wes's words continue in her ears. "I don't think he's ever been friends with a girl before."

"Maybe he tamed me," she suggest, playfully.

Wes kisses her lightly on the lips. "I'm glad he did."

_A/N 2: I couldn't sleep until I got this out. Damn Muse! Damn proposal! Damn Graduate school. Damn depressive episode this weekend. There, I've said it. _

_I do not know if I've ever actually been to Columbus (I've been to Ohio only twice in recent memory), so I cannot actually speak to the existence of a drive-in called Westie's, or the quality of their vampire fries. I also know nothing about hotels in Columbus, and so this is based on various banquette halls and ballroom facilities around the US._

_Citizen's United was a court decision in 2010 that gave corporation the legal right to personhood in the United States and launched what are commonly known as Political Action Committees (Pacs) and SuperPacs. These featured prominently in the 2012 election cycle. Stephen Colbert did an amazing set of covering of the way they worked, if you're curious. _

_Shout out to Pi-on-a-skateboard for helping me identify Dave Karofsky as the most awkward person to appear at the dinner table... also the suggestion that Tina wear more leather and, well… yeah. She knows what she does. Also to Different Child, Juks-Writes-4-You, EloquentFever, and Martina Malfoy LaStrange. And KjAnDcool who probably doesn't read this, but deserves a shout out anyway. _

_Finally, I will write a one-shot about just about anything for the first person to correctly identify the original source (composer, work and actor) for Liz's brother/Tina's uncle. I'll give you one final hit: Telly Leung played a character along side this one on Broadway. However, there were no references to Star Trek, High School Musical, or Panem in this production._

_Comments, questions, concerns, critiques all welcome. I know this didn't necessarily turn out the way I expected it to, so I'll be glad of any feedback. Okay… bed. And then apoptosis and autophagy. Fun day, tomorrow!_

_- C65_


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